Hard Time
by Arianna18
Summary: When they go after Mario Collagio, things go very wrong.


Disclaimer: I don't own these guys, wish I did...the show would have lasted for a lot more years!

Summary: When they go after Mario Collagio, things go very wrong.

Feedback: Always welcome!

Word Count: 46,044

Author's Notes: For my wonderful friend, Suzanne, on your birthday! And thanks to L.M. Lewis for your terrific beta support

**HARD TIME**

_by Arianna_

Mark was stretched out on the sweet-smelling and yes, freshly-mown grass, basking in the soft warmth of the mid-morning California rays and enjoying the soothing rush and swish of the surf rolling onto the beach below. He was well hidden behind the lush hedge that he swore must grow at the rate of a foot a week. But, man, for all he bitched to Hardcase, he loved living on the estate. Every morning, he woke feeling like he'd fallen into some kind of fairytale. Of course, that always led to the fear that it couldn't all be real, and it sure couldn't all last and, even after two years, he still dreaded the day when he'd inevitably wake up to his real life.

The life of a homeless, desperate, gangly fifteen-year-old runaway from juvie – where, charged with joy-riding, he'd been taken after hot-wiring a jalopy so he'd have a safe roof behind locked doors that particularly cold and rainy, fateful night – and who, in the cold light of dawn, was down to his last two bucks in loose change, starving, and with no clue of where he was going to sleep that night.

Then, later, the life of a determinedly hopeful loser, dreaming of winning fast, fast races but still living in tiny, beaten-down impoverished apartments that didn't dignify the name, with rodents and roaches for company. But, at least then, even if he had still been hungry, he'd had dreams to feed upon.

And, worst of all, most wretchedly and hopelessly horrible of all, the life of a depressed and bitter guy in his twenties, who woke up surrounded by ugly greenish-gray prison walls that blocked all sight of the sun; all because he was convicted of stealing his own car, the Porsche he'd slaved through countless repo jobs to earn, because that car was his ticket to finally achieving his dreams – dreams that had been shattered by the heavy metal clank of steel-enforced, barred and locked doors.

Every morning, he wrestled with that sense of inevitable dread that life, _his_ life, just couldn't be this good. He'd stretch in the luxurious bed in the gatehouse that was a far cry from the hard prison bunk or the lumpy back seat of that old, rusted Chevy. And then he'd rise to step into his very own private shower, get dressed and amble outside to inhale a deep, deep breath of the light breeze. Delicate scents of innumerable flowers and the clean, sharp, salt of the sea sure beat the stuffing out of the boiled cabbage and urine-scented flophouse, not to mention the Lysol-tainted institutional air of the prison. He'd tilt his face to savor the persistent warmth of the sun, which over the past two years had finally melted away the cold core of ice inside that he'd once feared would never leave him; and he'd again dare to hope that the dream might be real, and that it would last.

A slow smile of simple pleasure grew on his lips, and he sighed in utter contentment. Maybe it couldn't last forever but he was determined to enjoy every nuance of the world that now surrounded him because, no question about it, this was one mighty fine dream.

"McCORMICK!"

Snickering at the familiar bellow, wryly thinking that perfection was in the eye of the beholder, he scrambled to his feet and, lifting the hedge-clippers, he began indolently snipping at a few twiggy branches here and there.

"Yas sir, Massa, I's here," he called back with a slow, exaggerated Southern drawl. "I's right here at yore beck and call, workin' ma li'l self ri' on into th' ground, and jes' ready to jump at yore evra command."

"Cut it out, McCormick," Judge Milton C. Hardcastle growled. "I got important stuff to talk about here!" To lend emphasis to his words, he punched a finger against a manila folder he was carrying. So far as Mark could see, the folder hadn't done anything to deserve being poked so hard. But then, he hadn't done anything to deserve two years in prison. Go figure.

"Important stuff!" he exclaimed with exaggerated excitement, tossing aside the hedge-clippers and assuming an eager, 'I can't wait' expression. "Is this where I get to cast off my mild-mannered slave persona to turn into your dashing and loyal and much-abused sidekick, rushing back to the gatehouse to pull on my tights and mask and becoming Robin, or is this one of those times when I should run straight to the garage and saddle up old Scout 'cause I get to be Tonto? Huh, Judge? Are you Batman or the Lone Ranger today?"

"You're an idiot, McCormick, you know that?" Hardcastle growled at him with a disgusted look.

Shrugging, his face lighting with an engaging grin, Mark replied with hearty mockery, "Oh, come on, you can do better than that! I've been called _lots _worse names than 'idiot'!'

Snorting, the Judge turned around and, with an impatient wave at Mark to follow, he stomped back across the immaculate lawn to the house. "Put a sock in it, McCormick," he shouted. "We got work to do!"

Chuckling with a weary sense of foreboding because he'd grown accustomed to being shot at but could never claim to actually enjoy the experience, he jogged up the slope behind his … what? Keeper? Best friend? With another soft laugh as he followed Hardcastle into the house and across the hall, he thought again that old Milt didn't fit into any box and sure wasn't easy to categorize.

One thing was for sure, though. Hanging with the guy was never boring.

Hardcastle was already sitting behind his desk in the study, waiting impatiently, when Mark strolled in and dropped into the nearby chair. He folded his hands primly and quirked his brow indicating that he was all set to listen to all the important stuff the Judge had to tell him. Hardcase rolled his eyes but a smile played at the corner of his mouth before he scowled at the file now lying on his desk. "We got us a big one, this time," he growled, once again poking the poor file folder with a heavy index finger. "Real smooth operator; thinks he's above the law just 'cause he's made a bucket of cash and owns half the warehouses down at the docks."

"I'm all ears, Judge," Mark replied, fighting the urge to grin. "But, you know, being a rich, successful businessman is the American Dream. You know, pillar of society, living the good life …."

"Businessman?" Hardcastle snorted. "Pillar of society? This guy is living the good life, alright, as a ruthless, murdering gangster who'll peddle whatever makes him a buck: slave girls from Asia that he sells as prostitutes; black market weapons for other murderers and thieves; illicit drugs; bits and pieces of endangered species; probably even smuggles alcohol and tobacco, for all I know."

Scratching his cheek, Mark reflected, "Okay, so he's not exactly the American Dream poster boy."

"Just had a call from Frank," Hardcastle told him abruptly, his tone sober and serious as he got down to business. "Seems one of his snitches called in with a tip that something with a very pronounced fishy smell is going down at the docks, a big shipment that _has_ to be moved out in the next couple days."

"Something big, huh?" Mark echoed with an awed tone, nodding decisively to show that he got it, just to pull Hardcastle's chain because it was so much fun to do.

The Judge grimaced at his nonsense but refused to take the bait. Staying focused, he went on, "Now, nothing happens down on the docks without Mario Collaggio having his fingers into the pie somewhere along the line, but he keeps himself well covered and we've never been able to get close to him or nail him before. He's tied into the unions, particularly the longshoremen, owns warehouses all over the place, and a big trucking company."

"I've heard of this guy, Judge," Mark interjected soberly, all trace of boyish good humor gone. "He's a pretty scary dude. They say he never gets crossed twice mostly because he's _very_ careful, and also because he mostly kills off the competition, literally, and anyone else who might cross him before they ever get the chance to even think about it. I can't believe there's never been anything to tie him to before."

"Well, a lot of his business is legit," he allowed and then laid a finger against his nose as he continued, "but it's all just a big washing machine to launder the mountain of very dirty bucks he gets from the shady side of the street." Heaving a disgusted sigh, he went on, "We _know_ some of those legit businesses must slip over the line here and there to hide and move the goods, but he plays musical warehouses and trucks, so nobody knows where the stuff is stashed or when or where it's going to be moved. You with me so far, slick?"

"It's not rocket science, Judge," Mark replied repressively. "If we can find out what, when and where, we can maybe tie him in and put him away."

"Okay, then. Well, Frank hears he's looking for a driver 'cause one of his regular guys fell off the dock last week and those concrete overshoes he was wearing took him straight down."

"Oh, no," Mark protested, holding up his hands and shaking his head as he realized where this was going. His sober demeanor flared into unfeigned wariness as he sat up straighter. "Judge, this guy _kills_ people! Including his _own_ people if they so much as look sideways at him! And you want _me_ to be his new driver? Do I look crazy to you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, you do, but that's not the point here," Hardcastle retorted sarcastically. "The point is that we've got to move quick on this. There's not a lot of time. Frank has set up a fake set of references for you and he's lined up a guy who knows a guy who will recommend you for the driving gig, though the time you've spent in prison is probably the only reference Collagio cares about."

"A guy who knows a guy," he echoed sardonically. "Well, that certainly sounds like solid cover. Judge, you're gonna get me killed, you know that, right?"

"Ah, quit whining," Hardcastle drawled, waving off his concerns. "This isn't all that complicated. You go in, find out what's being transported, where and when, and get the information to me. I'll be backing you up, watching out for you, and Frank will call in the troops to round up the bad guys, just like always. Piece of cake."

Rolling his eyes toward Heaven and lifting his hands in wide supplication, Mark assumed a woebegone expression as he asked plaintively, "Do I really deserve this? Was I so bad in a previous life that I really, truly deserve this? The man's a maniac!"

The Judge snorted as he stood and again waved impatiently for Mark to follow him. "Let's go check out the neighborhood we'll be playing in." He headed toward the door and then stopped abruptly, turning back to McCormick who had grudgingly stood to follow him out. "You do have a current license to drive rigs, right?"

"Well, let's see," he drawled, making a show of pulling out his wallet and riffling through various bits and pieces of identification. "Ah, yes, here it is. And guess what? You're in luck!" Waving the small creased and battered folded form at the Judge, he exclaimed, "It doesn't expire for a whole two months!"

"Good!" Hardcastle grinned and rubbed his hands in satisfaction before he whirled around to hustle out of the house. "Better get it renewed, though," he called over his shoulder.

"Because we never know when we might need it again?" Mark chimed back.

"Now you're cookin', kiddo!"

Laughing helplessly, Mark trailed out behind him. God, he was going to get shot again, he just knew it. Either that or punched or measured up for a spiffy new pair of concrete boots. But his laughter died and he sighed when he thought about how truly dangerous Collaggio was. Blowing a long breath as he loyally trooped out of the house and climbed into the truck, he thought, _Only for Hardcase would I get into something as completely insane as this. 'A guy who knows a guy'? Give me a break._

00000

For nearly an hour of enduring the Judge's driving through the heavy Los Angeles traffic, Mark figured that he didn't have to worry about Collaggio – he was going to die any second in a twisted, fiery wreck. Eventually, against all the odds, Hardcastle pulled unscathed into the Port of Los Angeles Cargo Shipping Yard, a massive fenced acreage devoted to the shifting of containers the size of railroad cars and semi-trailers on and off truck beds and ships. When they were stopped by the guard on the gate, Hardcastle said they were there to see Scotty Miller. The guard consulted his sheet and, nodding, waved them through with the cryptic direction, "C3."

Slowing down to a crawl that was as potentially hazardous as his impatient darting in and out of traffic on the freeway had been, the Judge peered and squinted, evidently trying to figure out where 'C3' might be.

The place was a maze of dirty, modestly rusting, metal containers stacked five and six high that went on forever. Looming overhead all along the dockside were the yellow monster cranes that did the heavy lifting and shifting; from the ground, they looked a mile high. Transport trucks wove in and around through the narrow alleys between stacks of containers in a kind of mechanical dance that only they knew the steps to, some fully loaded and either waiting to be unloaded or on their way out of the yard; some with still empty trailers were lining up to take their load from one or another of the cranes. There were three huge container ships lined up along the dock, one being unloaded and two being loaded. Smaller vehicles zoomed around, no doubt carrying work supervisors, expediters and maybe some security people; maybe quite a few security people, given the value of the cargo that littered the ground as far as the eye could see. There were also smaller, more mobile blue cranes trundling in and out of the stacks, locating a single load to be lifted and put on a truck or taking a load from a truck to put on a stack, and then moving on again to another sector of the Port Cargo area. How anyone kept track of the thousands and thousands of containers and trucks was beyond Mark's comprehension.

"Who's Scotty Miller?" he asked as he also looked around for some indication of where C3 was.

"Scotty appeared in my court about ten years ago for taking stuff that didn't belong to him," Hardcastle replied with a shrug. "Learned his lesson and he's been working down here for five years now."

Mark gave him a quizzical look and slowly shook his head. "It never fails to astound me how many of the people you sent up seem to live only to do you favors."

"Why wouldn't they help me out?" the Judge asked, as if completely astonished by the observation. "I'm a good guy."

Mark just grinned and shook his head as he again started looking for some sign of C3. Or even C2 or C4. "Do you have any idea of where to find this Scotty?"

"Well," Hardcastle replied as he rubbed his mouth, "he operates one of the big cranes along the dock. I figure 'C' stands for 'crane'."

"Oh, okay, that helps a lot," Mark replied and twisted to look out the side window at the long row of sky-high yellow cranes. Before long, he spotted the one that had 'C3' painted in black three-foot-high letters. "Over there," he pointed and then threw up his hands and ducked as he yelled, "Geez!" when the Judge blithely drove in the indicated direction, abruptly cutting off a truck that nearly rammed them broadside. The loud blast of an air horn suggested the semi's driver hadn't been any more impressed with the Judge's driving than Mark was. Pretending to be completely unaware of the near collision and the extremely loud horn, Hardcastle carried on and eventually stopped beside the semi-stationary crane. Parked on wheels the size of the Judge's garage, the elaborate structure could be moved sideways along the cargo ships it was unloading.

Climbing out of the truck, Mark tipped his head back to look up and marvel at the engineering of the structure. Cables, as thick as a soft ball, wrapped around gargantuan fly wheels and linked to the cranes arms, deceptively delicate, metal constructions that could lift thousands of tons. A metal ladder welded to the side of the crane zigzagged up the structure to metal-grilled catwalks until it finally reached the landing that gave access to the crane operator's cabin an impossibly high distance away. Heights didn't bother Mark, but he didn't think he'd like to climb up and down that ladder every day … and he idly wondered how bathroom privileges worked. His eyes widened as he thought of having to tackle the ladder every time he wanted a drink of water or to take a leak.

"So," he asked, one hand shading his eyes from the overhead sun as he gazed up at the distant cabin, "is Scotty coming down to see us anytime soon?"

"Nope," Hardcastle replied, ambling toward the base of the ladder. "We're going up to see him."

Mark blinked and gaped at him, and then again surveyed the twenty or so stories of ladder that had to be climbed. "You're kidding, right?" he gasped.

"No, not right," the Judge said irritably. "It's just a ladder, McCormick."

"_You're_ going to climb _that _ladder?" McCormick clarified, still gaping. "Judge, you're in pretty good shape for a guy who's as old as Methuselah but … climbing up there? You'll get about halfway and have a heart attack, or your leg muscles will cramp and seize up, and I have to tell you, I am NOT going to carry you back down over my shoulder. And if you fall, don't come crying to me because you split your head – hell, your whole body – open like a watermelon." He struck a pose and said, "You know, Judge, maybe Scotty isn't such a good friend, after all. I really think this could be a carefully constructed ruse to kill you and get away with it."

"We're both climbing the ladder, and we'll be fine," the Judge replied with exaggerated patience and then shouted, "And I am not old!" Having reached the bottom of the ladder in question, he stoically began to climb, pausing about ten rungs up to look down. "Will you move it, McCormick? We haven't got all day, you know."

With an expression of profound misgiving on his face, Mark sighed and started to climb in the Judge's wake.

Hardcastle maintained a good pace for the first six stories. Mark figured their routine aerobic workouts during their nightly games of one-on-one could be thanked for that and for the fact that their leg muscles were in pretty good shape. By the tenth story, however, Hardcastle was breathing hard and beginning to sweat heavily. Though Mark was still doing okay, he called up with a whiney tone, "Hey, slave driver, do ya think we could take a break on the landing that's coming up? I mean, I know we don't have all day, but we're not being timed or anything, are we? This isn't, like, a test?"

"You're soft, McCormick," the Judge panted, but he obligingly stopped at the landing and, leaning on the guardrail, tried not to be obvious about the fact that he was badly winded.

"I know, Judge, definitely, indisputably soft," Mark agreed contritely as he hauled himself onto the narrow metal catwalk. "But I haven't been practicing, you know?" he rattled on, giving his friend time to catch his breath and not having the heart to challenge him to a pulse rate match. "Getting ready for a major endurance test, working out, climbing ladders all the live-long day. Put me behind a set of wheels and I'm your man. But I'm really a couch potato at heart, you know that. Bone-lazy, through and through."

The Judge eyed him suspiciously as he got his breathing under control. "Uh huh," he grunted. "I see you still have enough energy left to run off at the mouth." Waving at the next ladder, he ordered, "Climb."

"Already?" Mark challenged, sounding hurt. Not liking how flushed Hardcastle was, he held out his arms to draw in a large, exaggerated breath and blew it out slowly, and then drew another breath. The Judge straightened and smacked him on the chest, and Mark played up his, "Oomph," and coughed and gasped until Hardcastle smiled wearily and said, "It's okay, Hotshot. I got my breath back. You can quit with the dramatics. Let's go."

"Okay, well, if you insist; after you," he agreed with a flourish toward the foot of the next stretch of ladder, wanting the Judge to set the pace.

But after the next five stories, he called with sharp concern, "Slow down, Judge. It's not a race. We don't get extra points for respiratory failure, you know."

Seriously winded, puffing hard, flushed and perspiring, Hardcastle paused at the next landing but his expression was determined when he looked up at the last segments.

"Hey, Hardcase," Mark offered as he came up onto the catwalk, grimacing a little at the pull on his leg, arm and back muscles, panting a bit himself, "nobody is going to think less of us if we stop now. We're here to get a view of the area, right? To get our bearings? Well, the view is pretty darned good from right here. Or was Scotty planning a formal tea party for our visit to his aerie?"

Panting, Hardcastle agreed grudgingly, "Yeah, the view from here is pretty good. But Scotty is expecting us."

"And it will be a major disappointment for him not to have company in his lonely tower, yeah, I get that." Mark sighed and, his lips thinning as he studied his friend, he shook his head. "Enough, Judge. If there's something you really want to know from this guy, I'll go up and ask him the questions. But you won't be any good as my backup when I go undercover if you wear yourself out this early in the game. You hear what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, I hear you," Hardcastle retorted irritably. "You're saying I'm not up to it. You're saying I'm old."

"I'm saying I need you in fighting condition later on," Mark replied soberly. "I'm saying that we're high enough to get what we need out of this little visual tour of the area. So let's just look around and then get back down to solid ground, okay? Besides," he went on, waving at the continuously moving crane that was now burdened with a huge container it had lifted from the cargo ship along the wharf, "he's obviously very busy and I'll bet he has a quota to meet or a production schedule, and he'll probably be glad not to have to make time to chat with us, right? Right?"

The Judge sniffed and grimaced, hating to give up, but he finally nodded. "Yeah, right," he allowed grudgingly. Though he didn't look happy about it, he finally shrugged and muttered that he'd call Scotty later to explain they hadn't wanted to bother him, and then he turned to peer out at the world beneath them. His gaze roaming over the busy terminus, he said, "You need to be familiar with the routes the trucks are taking through this maze and you need to fix some landmarks in your head, so you don't get lost when you're down there."

Mark looked out over the guardrail, making a face at how very high they were. But he dutifully studied the ground, the paths the semis followed as they wove in and out and around the rows upon rows of stacked containers. He also tried to determine if there was any pattern to the comings and goings of the small cars that zipped around the containment area – and he looked for the security personnel, to see how diligent they appeared to be and how many of them there were. Last but not least, he looked for exit options, in case things went bad and he had to get his rig clear in a hurry. Though the entire operation was fenced, the wire mesh would never hold against a big rig under a full head of steam, and there was a service road running along the outside that he could swing onto. Beyond the fence and service road, there were blocks and blocks of warehouses. He pointed and said, "You'll have to be out there, in the warehouse district. How will we keep in touch? By shortwave radio? Or do you want me to wear a wire? Or maybe I could plant a bug under the dash of the rig?"

Considering the scenario and realizing there was no way he could stay close or follow McCormick into the containment area, Hardcastle scratched his cheek. "I think a bug is the least risky option. They'll probably check for a wire and it's hard to conceal a walkie-talkie."

"Okay," Mark agreed. "Do you know which of all those warehouses belong to Collagio? And do you see any of his rigs down there?"

The Judge pointed out several warehouses, then muttered, "But he probably owns at least a third of the buildings we can see from here, and lots more in other parts of town. No telling where he stashes the interesting stuff from up here." Then he peered at the trucks rumbling around, picking up and dropping off loads. "See that one over there – the royal blue cab with the scarlet lettering – King Transport?"

"Yeah, I got it," Mark told him. "Anything else we should take particular note of?"

Looking at his wristwatch, Hardcastle shook his head. "Well, I guess we got what we came for. And we need to get downtown to talk to Frank." Grimacing at the long stretch of ladders beneath them, he tugged at the brim of his baseball cap and grunted, "Let's go, kid."

Mark looked uncertainly at the Judge, but he appeared to be okay. The flush of exertion had faded and his breathing had evened out. Grinning a little, he reflected with familiar amazement at what good shape the old donkey was in for a man of his age. When Hardcastle moved toward the ladder, Mark slipped around him. "Uh, uh, uh! Last one up, first one down," he said playfully, with the vague notion that if his friend slipped, he might be able to catch or support him.

"Fine, fine, just get moving," Hardcastle grumbled with typical impatience, but he lightly clasped McCormick's shoulder on his way past, the only thanks he'd give or indication that he knew full well what the kid was up to. He watched Mark swing onto the ladder and start down, a fond smile tugging on the corner of his mouth, his blue eyes soft with affection.

By the time they finally made it back to solid ground, their legs felt like jelly. Looking up at the top of the crane, squinting a little in the sunlight, Mark seriously wondered why anyone would choose a job like that. Sure, after being in stir, he could understand the need for the privacy and quiet the place offered, and you could play 'King of the World' but, man, you'd have to be in good shape to do that climb everyday. He frowned thoughtfully. "Judge, do you think they have bathroom facilities up there?"

Flicking a look between Mark, the top of the structure and back again, Hardcastle grimaced. Shaking his head, he continued to the truck. "How the hell should I know, McCormick? You worry about the damnedest things."

"Well, I just thought Scotty might have mentioned –"

"Strange as it may seem to you, toilet facilities have never come up," Hardcastle cut in irritably. "Get in the truck!"

"I was just wondering, that's all," Mark whined with a playful pout. "No need to shout." And then he grinned and Hardcastle rolled his eyes, but gave a small chuckle, getting that McCormick had just, as usual, been pulling his chain.

00000

Lieutenant Frank Harper didn't look happy when they marched into his office about an hour later. His gaze flicked up at them from the file on his desk, looking first at one and then the other, and then away, while he drummed his fingers on the desk.

"Ah, don't tell me the set-up fell through," the Judge rumbled with a scowl. "Not when we finally get a half-decent chance to take this guy down."

"No, no, the details are all arranged," Frank told him, waving him to the chair in front of his desk. "Mark, you have an appointment at this address," he handed a note across the desk, "at three o'clock this afternoon. Your background is … well, your background: some professional driving and hauling experience, some jail time. You're tired of working for no more than a roof over your head while under the Judge's judicial stay, and you're looking for some fast cash, a lot of fast cash, so you can take a hike and get lost somewhere in Mexico or wherever." While Mark studied the address, nodded, and slipped it into his shirt pocket, Frank rubbed his mouth and then went on, "There's no way to hide the fact from Collagio that you work for Milt, not after the press coverage the last coupla years, let alone what he hears from his underworld associates, so we just made that part of the cover story."

Mark leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "Well, if everything's set, why do you look like your dog just died," he asked, his brow puckering with concern.

Harper pursed his lips and scowled. "Because I don't like it," he snapped. "I'm sorry, Mark, no disrespect to you, but this is a job for an undercover cop. I think it's too dangerous and you'll be in over your head."

"Then why not send in a cop?" Mark asked with a shrug. "Believe me; it wouldn't hurt my feelings to be drop-kicked out of this little charade."

"Because Collagio would spot a cop a mile away," Hardcastle exclaimed impatiently, thumping the side of his fist on the desk. "This is the only way it will work and Frank knows that, don't you, Frank?"

"Yeah, yeah, which is why I set it up, but I don't have to like it," he grumbled irritably and then sighed. "You be careful, Mark. If you have _any_ sense that it's going bad, you get out of there, pronto."

"Oh, hey, I'm _always_ careful, especially when it's _my_ long term health that's at stake," Mark assured him with a teasing grin as he leaned forward to slap Hardcastle's shoulder. "It's the Judge who likes to run risks, not me. Isn't that right, Judge?"

Snorting, Hardcastle waved him away. "We're gonna need a bug for McCormick to hide under the rig's dash, to give him a way to communicate with me. I think a directional beacon would be a good idea, too, so we can keep tabs on what's goin' down if I have to hang back."

Frank sighed again and nodded, resigned to the inevitable. "No problem. I'll call downstairs and you can pick up the equipment on your way out."

"Now you're cookin'!" Hardcastle exclaimed with a wide, satisfied grin as he stood and turned to hustle out of the office. "We'll keep you in the loop," he called back over his shoulder.

As Mark moved to follow him, Frank asked uncertainly, "You sure you're okay with this, Mark? You don't have to go through with it, you know."

Surprised by the depth of concern for him that he saw written on Frank's visage, Mark's expression softened and he hesitated, vulnerability and confusion in his eyes. He wasn't at all sure any of this was a good idea; nor did he particularly want to stick his head into the lion's jaws. But … Hardcastle was counting on him. Swallowing, he nodded. "Yeah, sure, I'm fine with it. It'll be okay. Piece of cake," he said with as much confidence as he could muster.

"McCormick!" Hardcastle yelled impatiently from the hall outside.

Pointing over his shoulder, Mark grinned as he said, "The Lone Ranger is hot to trot. Gotta go. But, uh," he sobered briefly, "thanks for your concern, Frank. I appreciate it. I really do."

Harper nodded and waved him off. "Good luck," he called. Shaking his head, muttering, "You're going to need it," Frank picked up the phone's handset, punched in a number and made the arrangements to loan out the electronic equipment Hardcastle had requested.

00000

At two-twenty that afternoon, the Coyote roared up the drive to the PCH and turned right. Mark adjusted his sun glasses and glanced into the rearview mirror, catching sight of Hardcase's GMC truck coming out of the drive, before focusing again on the curving road. His mouth thinned as he psyched himself up for the appointment ahead and he swallowed hard to quell the butterflies in his gut.

Thirty-five minutes later, he pulled up in front of a sprawling, two-story, grimy, yellow-brick building on the edge of the warehouse district that surrounded the Port of Los Angeles. The location was beneficial in that it was strategically placed to reach not only the docks, but also the ramps of three different main interstate freeways in the spaghetti maze of multi-lane highways that served the greater LA area. Given the deep-throated rumble emanating from behind the building, he assumed the rigs and their trailers were parked in the back.

Hoisting himself up from behind the wheel, he swung his legs over and onto the pavement. Pulling his short leather jacket down over his hips and flipping up the collar, he watched Hardcastle pull into a parking spot, three-quarters of a block away. The Judge would be listening in on the discussion through the tiny electronic transmitter hidden inside a packet of gum that Mark had shoved into the front pocket of his jeans. He fervently hoped if he was searched that it would be cursory and nobody would go so far as to tear apart the thin foil sheath that held several sticks of chewing gum. The tiny, round, magnetized directional transmitter was also hidden in the packet. A little too much like putting all his eggs in one basket, but it wasn't like he had a whole lot of choices for innocuously hiding the gear on his person.

Glancing casually along the street, he also hoped nobody spotted Hardcastle, who was slouched down behind his steering wheel, the brim of his baseball cap pulled low over his brow to conceal his features as he pretended to sleep, as if he was catching a few winks while waiting for someone. But, when Mark glanced up and saw the surveillance cameras that swiveled on a curve that would cover the whole block, his blood ran cold. Damn and double damn. The odds of Hardcase passing unnoticed just got a whole lot worse. One of the cameras was locked on him, so he didn't dare start talking to himself; these guys would suspect a wire before he could take another breath. The jittery butterflies were back in his belly, flying up a storm. Rubbing his stomach, he strode around the Coyote, across the cracked cement sidewalk and, passing under the cameras, up the three grungy stone steps that led to a glass door beneath a garish sign that read, 'King Transport'.

"Hi, ho, Silver, _and away!_" he muttered meaningfully under his breath, but without much hope that Hardcase would take his meaning, as he pulled open the door and strode boldly into the lion's den. Inside, the place was cavernous; the engine rumbles now nearly deafening. One full quarter of the facility was given over to a custom-designed servicing center for the rigs. Half the remaining space appeared to be used for temporary warehousing of transitory goods: some trucks brought them in, and other trucks would move them out again. The last quarter of the floor space was dedicated to management, administration and dispatch, the open-concept offices and reception all located behind dusty floor to ceiling windows. Studying that side of the building, he decided that at least one office, though, the last one at the back of the building, had regular walls, no doubt for increased privacy. _Ah, Mario, Mario, whereforth art thou, Mario? Couldst thou be behind yonder closed door? Nah, I bet your office is on the fiftieth floor of a downtown tower with a view of the ocean._

Ambling across the filthy and scraped cement floor, Mark nonchalantly entered the inner sanctum. Only after the door had closed behind him did he realize that the office area was so quiet that it had to be at least partially sound-proofed against the thunderous roaring of nearby engines. The sealed section also seemed to have its own ventilation and air conditioning system, because the hot, pungent stench of oil and gas hadn't followed him through the door and the air he inhaled now was light and sweet – fresh.

_Well, _he thought sardonically, _if they decide they don't like me, at least I won't die from carbon monoxide poisoning._ Idly looking around and again studying the thick windows, he tried not to think about the fact that a gunshot in here wouldn't be heard by anyone on the outside. They could hustle the body out the back into a trailer, for deposit in some distant place, and nobody would be the wiser. Not a cheerful thought. He also wondered anxiously if the Judge could still hear what was going on, or if the shielding would block the bug's transmissions.

"Can I help you?" a bored but attractive clerk behind the reception counter asked.

"Uh, yes, I think you probably can," he replied with a bright, flirtatious smile as he took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his jacket pocket. "I have an appointment with the manager."

Giving his charm short-shrift, she pressed on an intercom. "Your three o'clock is here." She looked up at him expectantly, and he leaned forward to supply, "McCormick. Mark McCormick."

"Send him down," a rough, tinny voice erupted from the box.

Leaning over the counter, she pointed down the long hall that ran between the glass barrier and individual offices. "Door at the end of the hall," she told him and then turned away to get back to her work.

"Thanks," he replied and then, doing his best to look cocky, instead of heading directly down the hall, he leaned forward onto the counter that separated them. "So, you been working here long?" he asked, trying to sound seductive.

Arching a cynical brow, she responded flatly, "Uh huh."

"Uh, okay, well, I guess you get hit on by the all the guys, pretty woman like you. Must help to have all those security screens from the cameras outside – you could see an old boyfriend coming from the next block and be ready to blow him off, right?"

Rolling her eyes, her only response was to jerk her thumb over her shoulder, a mute command to move on to his appointment.

Mark beat a little tattoo on the counter with his knuckles and nodded. "Yeah, okay, _definitely_ time to move along. I get it. See ya later," he conceded, his message more for the Judge than for her.

00000

Down the block, the Judge had been grimacing and muttering irritably about McCormick's lack of sense in stopping to flirt while in the middle of a dangerous operation. But the comment about the cameras caught his attention, and he squinted past the brim of his cap toward the building. "Damn," he cursed softly, with a note of admiration, when he spotted them. "You're good, McCormick, I'll give you that. Nice catch."

Though he hated to take off, the electronics Mark carried would allow him to hear and track the kid from a more discreet distance, so he pulled the brim of the ball cap even lower on his brow and started up the engine. Keeping his face averted from the cameras, he drove off down the block and turned at the corner, disappearing from sight.

00000

Mark rapped on the closed door that held the name plate of Mario's brother, Tony Collagio and, after a deep voice called from inside, he opened the door and walked in. He paused briefly, swiftly swallowing his surprise to find both brothers in the office, one behind the desk and the other standing by the glass door that opened into the back parking yard. Wondering if it was a good or bad thing that Mario was present, he forced a smile as he crossed the office and held out his hand. "Mark McCormick," he said amiably. "I'm here to see about a job."

Waving off his proffered hand, Tony pointed him to a chair in front of the desk. In his mid-thirties, the guy was dressed casually in a red plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up to show off his bulging muscles. Both brothers were swarthy, but while Tony looked like he could use a shave, forty-year-old Mario was all suave and sophisticated in a hand-tailored blue silk suit. As good as the suit was, though, it couldn't hide the facts that he was short, stocky and looked like he could handle himself in dark, back alleys. Their black eyes glittered as they studied him from under heavy, not quite scowling brows and mops of unruly and slightly oily black curls.

Sprawling casually in the indicated chair, Mark did his best not to squirm under the intense scrutiny and oppressive silence. "I, uh, I heard you were looking for a part-time driver for local routes," he offered, straightening a little and opting for gruff sincerity. "I could use the work."

"What, Hardcastle isn't paying you enough?" Mario asked, his mocking tone low and dangerous.

"Oh, don't get me started on that old skinflint," Mark retorted with disgust, shaking his head. "You know, I thought it would be a sweet deal; sack out on an estate beside the ocean, cut a little grass. What the hell? It's better than a cell in Quentin, right?" He snorted. "The guy's a fruitcake. Not only does he ride my ass from dawn to dusk, he doesn't get that a man needs more than milk money, you know? Treats me like his personal slave. And, _worse,_ he thinks he's some comic book crime fighter. Senile old coot stumbles around getting in the way of the cops and hauls me along for the ride. Hams it up for the media. He's a joke, a bad one. And annoying as hell." He grimaced and shrugged. "Hangin' out on the estate is still better than doin' hard time but, I gotta tell ya, I'm like lookin' for a way to take a verrrrry long vacation, somewhere far, far away." He leveled a stony look at Mario and said flatly, "Which is why I need some cash. Preferably … a lot of cash." When they continued to stare at him, he tossed up his hands. "Okay. Seems I came to the wrong place. Sorry to have wasted your time."

"Just hold on a minute, Skid," Mario directed, gesturing sharply for him to wait.

Tony got up and circled the desk to pat him down. "Empty your pockets," he ordered briskly.

"What's this?" Mark exclaimed, pulling the packet of gum, sun glasses, his car keys, and some loose change out of one pocket, his wallet out of another and holding his hands out from his body. "You think I'm dumb enough to try to set you guys up? I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but, hey, I ain't got no death wish, ya know?" he protested while Tony patted him down. "I heard about you in San Quentin, and when I picked up some scuttlebutt on the street that you were looking for a driver for some, uh, quick work, I thought I'd take a chance, you know? Opportunity knocks, and all that?"

The brothers exchanged glances; Mario arched a brow and, with a wolfish grin that sent chills down Mark's spine, he gave a negligent shrug. Nodding, Tony leaned back against his desk and turned his intimidating gaze on McCormick, growling, "You're an ex-con, so I figure you know the drill. Here's the deal. You heard right. We need a driver and we need him right now. We checked you out and you don't really smell kosher, you hear what I'm sayin'? But … like I said, we need a driver and ain't got no time to be looking in the want-ads. You want a job, you start as of right now. You cross us, and you're dead. Capiche?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure, I get it," Mark replied soberly, looking from one to the other, as he stuffed the gum, keys, glasses, and the wallet back into his pockets. "When do I get paid and how much?"

"When the job's done, and enough to catch the next flight to wherever you want to go for your, uh, vacation," Tony said heavily. "You in?"

"Yeah, absolutely. Rio, here I come," Mark replied with a cocky grin, rubbing his hands together as if he couldn't wait. "Where's my rig?"

Mario stepped away from the door and Tony straightened to lead Mark out the back way. As he moved around the desk, Mark asked casually, "What'll I be hauling?"

"Does it matter?" Mario challenged repressively.

"Uh, no, not particularly," he replied with a shrug. "Just wondering, that's all."

Mario gave him an enigmatic look. "Too much curiosity isn't healthy," he said flatly.

"I hear you," Mark agreed easily, as if he hadn't a care in the world. "Okay, well, probably won't see you again, right? Thanks for the work." And then he turned his back on one of the most dangerous men in the state, to follow one scarcely less dangerous into the yard of rumbling semis.

With a low, salacious chuckle, Mario sniped, "Just try not to hit any speed bumps, McCormick. Wouldn't want you to bruise the merchandise."

Mark paused in mid-step and looked back over his shoulder at the gangster. Just past Collagio's shoulder, he could see what he hadn't seen while in the office: a series of security monitor screens ranged across the upper half of the back wall. His brows arched and his stomach plummeted as he wondered if they'd spotted Hardcase. But, with only a wry expression of amusement masking his shudder at the unsubtle hint about the cargo he'd be hauling, he broke eye contact with Mario, turned away and jogged a few paces to catch up with Tony.

"Yo! Lonny!" Tony yelled across the yard and gestured abruptly when the man looked around. Mark did a double-take when he realized he knew the guy from prison. Lonny Cates, former outlaw biker, had done time for manslaughter after beating another biker to a pulp in a bar fight. He'd gotten out on parole a year before, which meant he must have at least another two or three years to go. As he approached, Mark noted the behemoth hadn't gotten any shorter, nor did he pack any less muscle on his large frame, but he'd lost the Mohawk, opting for a skinhead look. Tattoos rippled on his bulging biceps, and his piercing blue eyes under furrowing brows were just as flatly cold and cruel as they'd ever been.

"Lonny's the honcho on this run," Tony told him as the bruiser loped toward them. "You tuck your rig in behind his and stay there."

Mark nodded his understanding and, when Cates stopped beside them, he said evenly, "Hey, Lonny, been awhile."

"Skid," the big man acknowledged and then sneered, "Heard you got caught stealing another car within months of getting' outta the joint. Not smart, Ace. You enjoying Hardcase's company?"

"Well, you know," he replied with a small grin, holding out one palm and then the other as he went on, "Seaside estate versus cellblock C. Seemed a good deal at the time." Shaking his head ruefully, he shrugged. "Turns out, the man's a certified lunatic, and if I spend much more time in his company, he's gonna take me around the bend with him." Gazing off around the yard, Mark grinned cockily, "So, I guess you could say I'm looking for greener pastures."

"You two know each other?" Tony cut in.

"From Strykerville," Lonny supplied.

Frowning, Tony turned on Mark. "Strykerville? I thought you did time in San Quentin."

"Well, I get around, see the sights," McCormick explained blithely. "Strykerville got a little overcrowded, so a bunch of us got transferred to the big house."

"Uh huh," he grunted sourly. Turning back to Cates, he growled, "You'll be watchin' out for McCormick, makin' sure he stays outta trouble and takin' real good care of him till we pay him off at the end of this run."

Lonny quirked a brow and nodded. Smirking at McCormick, he said, "Don't worry, boss, I'll take real good care of him."

"Must be my lucky day," Mark rejoined.

"See the dispatcher, over there," Tony growled as he pointed toward a glass-sided hut on the edge of the lot. "He'll assign you your rig and give you your papers."

As he made his way across the yard, Mark studied the small, weaselly man talking to the dispatcher and Mario Collagio. Frowning, he realized he knew that guy, too, and shivered unconsciously. Mort Grimsby, a guy who got his jollies from killing other people for the hell of it, more cold-blooded than any reptile, he was a died-in-the-wool bully despite his small stature – or maybe because of it. If he'd been smarter, instead of dumber than a box of rocks, he'd've probably made a fair living as a high-priced hitman. What the hell was Grimsby doing here? There was no way he was _ever_ supposed to get out of prison. Mario glanced his way and moved off before Mark could overhear what they were talking about.

"Well, if it isn't Mort Grimsby. Does the Warden know you're out on a pass?" he drawled when the little guy turned around and almost bumped into him. Chuckling as he gestured back at Cates, who was deep in conversation with Tony Collagio, he went on bemusedly, "This is like old home week. Sure didn't expect to see old Lonny Cates today, let alone you."

"Yeah, well, life is full of surprises, Skid," the rat-faced man retorted, his tone surly as he shouldered past.

"That it is," Mark murmured agreeably before casually introducing himself to the dispatcher, another member of the Collagio clan from the look of his features and build, an uncle or cousin maybe. Despite his attempts to project cool and cocky toughness, though, Mark was scared. He could feel in his bones that they were on to him and Hardcastle. The butterflies had turned to lead weights in his belly and his chest was tight with anxiety. Licking his lips, he struggled to focus on what the dispatcher was saying as he was assigned a rig and the fake manifest he'd carry was blithely signed off and stamped with time and date. Handing him his route papers and load documentation, the dispatcher waved him to a rig parked not far away.

Glancing around at the other three rigs also firing up, and then down at the papers as his fingers closed over the keys he was given, he saw he was registered as hauling perishable goods. Loping toward the vehicle garishly painted in King Transport colors, he muttered sarcastically, "Perishable goods, huh? Right, a whole convoy shuttling lettuce or," he continued with a heavier, more meaningful tone for the Judge's benefit, "maybe succulent and very young pears from the Orient."

When he got to his truck, he expertly checked out the brake lines and hitch linking the rig to the long empty trailer he'd be hauling to the Port. Casually, he pulled out a stick of gum, palming the directional transmitter as he circled the trailer, checking the wheels. The second time he bent to examine the under-carriage, he quickly attached the magnetized transmitter to the metal frame. "Like we import lettuce by the barge load from China," he grunted as he rounded the front of the rig.

Shoving the packet of gum back into his pocket, figuring the bug was as useful and probably safer there than under the dash, he reached up to open the door. Climbing inside and switching on the ignition, he rambled on, "Hope it doesn't all wilt in a hot warehouse on Desert Parkway in the Cabrillo Canyon." But then, remembering the Collagios didn't trust him any farther than they could throw him, and might well have planted their own bug in the cab, as he put the rig in gear and wheeled in behind Cates' transport, he began warbling, "Long and slender, lithe and lovely, The Girl from Ipanema goes walking, and when she passes, each one she passes, goes, 'Ahhh.'"

00000

Hardcastle's gaze narrowed as he started up his truck and pulled away from the curb. He'd known the game would play out fast, but _this_ fast made him nervous and he didn't much like hearing that Mort Grimsby wasn't in the cell he was supposed to be in. The kid had done okay, but it was pretty clear the Collagio brothers didn't trust him. Cates would take care of him alright – as soon as the cargo was delivered, Lonny or maybe Grimsby would waste him and dump his body in the desert. Milton rubbed his mouth and sighed, worried that maybe this time he'd gotten Mark in over his head. But then he shrugged. The kid could tread water with the best of them; he'd be fine.

But there was no doubt that they needed backup, and they needed it in a hurry.

Wincing at McCormick's deliberately goofy, off-key serenade, his gaze darted around as he drove swiftly away from the warehouse. He needed to find a pay phone. Two minutes later, he spotted one at a corner garage and pulled in. Climbing out of his cab and hastening to the phone hanging on the garage wall, he impatiently dug into his jeans' pockets for a coin. Not at all happy when all he got was Frank's answering machine, he left a fast message, his gravelly tone urgent, "Frank, they smell a rat. Sounds like it might be Asian girls, smuggled in as slaves for the prostitution rings. The pickup is going down now at the docks, and delivery is a warehouse on Desert Parkway in Cabrillo Canyon. Might be several semis involved – and, get this, Lonny Cates and Morton Grimsby are both in the picture. Find out why Grimsby isn't still locked up. We need lotsa backup pronto. See ya in the Valley."

He hung up and lumbered back to his truck. For a moment, he paused and scratched the back of his head, wondering how close he dared stick to McCormick's tail. Too close and they'd make him for sure. Too far away and McCormick would be flying on his own. Though he didn't like to let the kid out of his sight, the tracker had a range of half a mile and that would have to be close enough.

Sighing, he shook his head as he climbed into his truck. He sure hoped they'd find the girls alive. Too many of them died of thirst or starvation during the rough journey or suffocated in those damned sealed containers.

00000

"Okay, okay, I'll make the arrangements right away. Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll be there before you know it," Frank soothed and then hung up the phone. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his eyes, and then called the airline. When he hung up the handset, he saw the message light was blinking. Scowling, he punched in the code to retrieve the recorded message and, the scowl deepening, his lips twisted as he listened grimly. Swiftly, he made another call.

"Lou, listen, I don't have time to explain all the details," he began hastily. "Something big's come up fast that I can't handle myself and I figure it's probably a federal case now, anyway. I have to go out of town for awhile, to Italy, and I might be gone for awhile – family emergency; Claudia's sister and brother-in-law were involved in a serious accident and we've got to make sure they're okay, as well as take care of their kids. Anyway, Hardcastle is working a sting we set up on Mario Collagio, and I got a search and seizure warrant waiting to be executed when the time is right that I'll send down to you on my way out. Looks like a King Transport convoy carrying hot cargo – sounds like it might be slave girls from the East, but could be illegal arms, could be anything – is loading up at the docks as we speak and will be hauling the goods out to a warehouse on Desert Parkway in Cabrillo Canyon. We need to be there with a welcoming committee. Oh, and apparently a convicted felon name of Morton Grimsby is mixed up in this and isn't in San Quentin where he's supposed to be. Guy's a trigger-happy killer." He paused to listen and nodded unconsciously. "Yeah, great. Thanks. I owe you one."

Hanging up, he rubbed his hands over his face. "Never rains but it pours," he muttered unhappily. Standing, he grabbed his suit jacket from the hook on the wall behind his desk, and hurried out of the office.

00000

Very glad they'd done their reconnaissance earlier that day so that he had some clue of where to find the pickup coordinates he'd been given, Mark wheeled his rig into the Cargo containment area. Minutes later, after winding through the maze, he was in line to have a containers dropped onto his trailer by one of the mobile blue cranes. And then he was driving back out the gate, pausing only to have the manifest signed off by the guard who manned the security kiosk and monitored all vehicles going in and out.

Turning onto the service road behind Cates' King Transport semi, trying not to dwell on the horrific prospect of terrified girls maybe being in the container behind him, he headed toward the interstate. His gaze raking his mirrors and side streets, he wondered nervously where Hardcastle was, but fretting about everything that could go wrong wasn't helping. Taking a deep breath, he willfully relaxed his shoulders and concentrated on navigating the heavy traffic. Hardcastle was out there, somewhere, and he trusted the Judge to bring in the cavalry right on time, just like always.

00000

Hardcastle kept close tabs on the directional locator receiver on the seat beside him but, so far, it seemed that McCormick really was en route to Cabrillo Canyon. So far, so good. Relaxing a little, he began to whistle tonelessly. In the midday traffic, it would take the trucks at least another two hours to get there; plenty of time for Frank to rally the troops and get into position.

The traffic thinned, though, after he left the interstate and followed the narrow, curving, two-lane state highway into the hills. Concentrating on navigating the winding road, he didn't notice the big transport coming up fast behind him. Flicking a glance at the rearview mirror, he was startled to see the King Transport cab looming so close, practically riding on his bumper. Pursing his lips, he pressed down on the accelerator pedal, but the larger and evidently lightly loaded, much more powerful truck easily kept pace.

And then it pulled out, its engine roaring as it sped up to come alongside, heedless of the blind curve looming ahead.

"Oh, this isn't good," he muttered, pressing the pedal to the floor, but his truck was already going flat-out on the uphill grade. Keeping a tight grip on the wheel with his left hand, he reached under his jacket with his right to pull his weapon from his shoulder holster. The semi paced him for a breathtaking hundred yards and Hardcastle glanced to the side, wishing there was room to pull off, but the land dropped sharply away just past a narrow, gravel shoulder and a token wooden rail. Cutting the semi a sideways look, he saw Grimsby pulling on the steering wheel, edging closer, crowding him, and he hit the brake, hoping the heavy transport would fly past without clipping him.

But the King Transport rig veered sharply into his lane, slamming against the side of his pickup with a mighty jolt. Metal screamed against metal, and the big rig ruthlessly shouldered him further over, his right wheels spinning and spitting up gravel as they roared into the curve. There was nowhere to go, no room and no time to drop back. Milt fumbled for the door handle as the grill of his truck slammed through the guard rail. Even as the pickup flew out over the edge, he threw himself out of the cab and, plummeting toward the ground, he desperately brought his arms up to protect his head.

The transport disappeared around the curve as he hit the rocky, sloping ground hard, snapping bones with swift, sharp agony. His body's inertia drove him forward, skidding and rolling on the rough, loose stones, ripping his clothing, flaying his skin, battering and bruising muscle, grinding broken bones and forcing a low, guttural cry from his throat. There was an almighty crash below, followed by the shrieking grind of crushing metal as his truck flipped and rolled. When the back of his head banged against a rock, the world went black.

00000

They'd topped the low summit and the three King Transport semis were now rumbling down the two-lane highway into the Canyon. Watching his side mirrors, Mark wondered where the fourth rig had disappeared to; he hadn't seen it bringing up the rear of their little convoy for at least twenty minutes. But, maybe, it had just fallen back on the steep climb and was only hidden around one of the curves behind him.

Glancing at his watch, Mark figured they couldn't be much more than half an hour from the warehouse and, despite doing his best to think good thoughts, he was increasingly tense with foreboding. He couldn't shake the bad feeling he had about the whole operation – it was too loose, too opportunistic, too much could go wrong. Dread filled his belly and left his mouth parched. Why the hell did he let Hardcase talk him into these stupid stunts? God knew, he was no hero; hanging out with killers and ruthless gangsters had never been his idea of a good time. Trying to beat the bastards at their own game was just plain nuts; worse, it was suicidal. Personally, given his druthers, he'd far rather be back at Gulls Way, cleaning out the gutters or mowing the endless acres of lawn.

His anxiety only increased when Cates unexpectedly started to slow and the right turn signal flashed on the trailer up ahead. Behind him, the semi piloted by a driver he didn't know, crowded closer. Why were they stopping? Grimly, tensing for action, he debated whether to just lock himself in the cab and hope rescue arrived or to get the hell out and run as fast as he could. But, when Cates just pulled into a truck stop, he told himself he was being ridiculous and to calm down. Maybe the guy was hungry or wanted a caffeine fix, or maybe he just needed to hit the john.

Still, it was odd to stop for a break when they were so close to their destination.

Warily, he followed Cates onto the broad sweep of nearly empty tarmac behind the restaurant and service centre, pulling up to park parallel to the other rig. When the guy following him pulled up on his other side, he tried very hard not to think about being tightly sandwiched between two adversaries. After switching off the ignition, he climbed down from the cab, stretched as if he hadn't a care in the world, and sauntered out past the hood to join Lonny, who was waiting for him. "Coffee break?" he asked, striving for lackadaisical innocence.

"Gotta call ahead to let the warehouse know we'll be there in half an hour or so," Lonny told him. When the other driver, Mac somebody, appeared, Cates waved them ahead to the restaurant. "Get something to eat," he said. "I'll just wait for Grimsby. He should be right behind us."

Mark set off with Mac, glancing back once over his shoulder. When he saw Cates staring at him with the beady-eyed intensity of a vulture, the fine hairs on the nape of his neck lifted and he felt cold despite the stifling late afternoon heat. His gaze dropped away and he followed Mac inside.

00000

As soon as McCormick was out of sight, Cates fished in his pocket for a duplicate set of keys to Mark's rig. Scant minutes later, when he saw Grimsby approaching the turn into the lot, he climbed up into the cab and pulled McCormick's transport ahead, leaving space for Grimsby to slip into the slot he'd left and pulling up a little to the side before he stopped. Minutes after that, they had unhitched the cabs on the two semis and switched them. Then, Grimsby pulled what had been Mark's trailer around to park behind Cates' truck. The containers were identical and there was no way of knowing a switch had been made short of checking the registration numbers on the containers against the manifests – and that kind of paperwork glitch was easy to explain away.

Smiling humorlessly as he strode toward the diner with Grimsby, Cates was well satisfied that things were going according to plan. He got a real kick out of knowing they were playing Hardcastle and his buddy for suckers … and he laughed out loud when Grimsby sketched an arc in the air as he described how Hardcase's pickup had flown off the road.

Scratch one meddling, more trouble than he was worth, ex-Superior Court Judge.

It was just icing on the cake to set up his stooge for the hit.

Ten or so minutes later, when they all returned to the parking lot, he said to Mark, "Change of plan. You're to continue on to the warehouse, but the rest of us have been rerouted to another location." When McCormick gaped at him, obviously caught off-balance, he smiled coldly. "Don't worry; arrangements have been made to see that you get what's coming to you upon delivery."

"Yeah, okay," Mark agreed uncertainly, confusion shadowing his eyes as he turned away to climb into his rig. Distracted, trying to figure out what was going on now, he hadn't noticed the dents and scraped paint hidden by the shadows on the far side of the trailer he was hauling.

00000

FBI Special Agent Lou McKendrick had had to scramble to get things organized, but he was in place and waiting in an unmarked sedan near the intersection when the King Transport trucks turned off the highway onto Desert Parkway. The forty-year-old, large-boned and well-muscled agent pulled out to follow the short convoy of four trucks, and radioed ahead to give a heads-up to the detectives and patrol cars waiting to surround the warehouse. But they'd not gone two blocks before three of the transports turned off. Frowning, he glanced at the directional receiver on the dash that was tuned to the frequency of the device loaned to Hardcastle.

Once again, he reached for his radio to communicate with his team. "Something's up – three of the transports have turned off, including the one Hardcastle was tracking. Reynolds, you and Ryan take the truck that's still heading your way before it gets to the warehouse. It's battered on the passenger side, like it was in a recent collision; maybe we've gotten lucky and it's the one that a witness reported seeing force Judge Hardcastle off the road. The rest of you, shift south parallel to Valley Road to rendezvous with me; we'll move in once I know where they're going."

00000

"Bye, bye," Mark chanted as he watched the other trucks turn off, heading south to God knew where. "I wonder where you three guys are going? Collagio got another warehouse on Valley Road?" he added, still being cagey in case someone other than the Judge was listening in, but wanting to give Hardcastle a heads-up that he had separated from the other semis.

Slowing to just under the speed limit as he drove along the broad industrial parkway toward the warehouse that, if the addresses he was passing were any indication, had to be at least another mile ahead, Mark lightly chewed on his lower lip as he tried to make sense of what was going down. If Collagio suspected something, surely they wouldn't have let him drive off alone with a truckload of valuable, if very illegal, and possibly human cargo. So … someone still had to be keeping tabs on him; maybe the midnight blue Chevy sedan that had been trailing him for the last two blocks. Was this a setup or was Collagio just hedging his bets by warehousing parts of the shipment in different locations? Hardcastle sure wouldn't be pleased to lose three-quarters of the goods, but what he had in the container behind him would be enough to tie Collagio into the deal and nail him. After that, the cops would have enough probable cause to shakedown all his other warehouses in the area and find the rest of the haul. Might take time and manpower, but they'd eventually, probably, recover whatever it was that they were all transporting. And, God, he really hoped it wasn't pretty young girls stolen from the fields for rapacious purposes.

Still, the delay would give Cates, Grimsby and who knew how many other bad guys time to go to ground, and that wasn't good. His mouth twisted sardonically and he had to admit to himself that he was relieved to have parted company with the two killers – maybe three, if Mac was a bad guy, too, and he probably was. Unhappily, he supposed that pretty much made him a coward. Even more unhappily, he reflected that it wasn't over yet and there could still be unpleasant surprises waiting at the warehouse or, behind him, in the blue sedan. Man, he wished he didn't feel so isolated and vulnerable but he once again sternly told himself he could count on Hardcastle to be there with lots and lots of cops to handle all the guys with guns.

With a worried frown, he again swept the roadway and his mirrors, wondering where the hell Hardcase was. Sure would be helpful to know if the Judge wanted him to keep going or if it would be better to turn off and try to follow the others, see where they were headed. But if he was being watched, that could blow the whole deal.

His anxious musings were disrupted when the distinctive wail of a police siren erupted from the sedan behind him and a bubble light began rotating on its dash. Blowing a long, relieved breath, his tight, tense shoulders sagging with the relief of knowing his part in the game was done, Mark pulled over to the side and stopped.

"Sure glad to see you guys," he called cheerfully to the two beefy detectives that were approaching as he climbed down from the cab. But his welcoming grin faded when they pointed the business end of their revolvers toward him. Lifting his hands, he stammered, "Hey, points for realism, but you don't need those, you know. And you sure don't need to point them at me."

"FBI. Turn around and put your hands behind your head," the taller of the two men snapped.

"What? FBI?" Mark exclaimed, blinking in confusion. Impatiently, the stocky one grabbed him and pushed him hard, face first, against the side of the cab. His wrists were jerked back and roughly cuffed. "Hey, look, there must be some mistake here," he blurted, rattled by their aggression. "I'm on your side."

"That so?" one of the men retorted sarcastically as he gripped Mark's arm and dragged him around to the far side of his rig. "You want to explain what happened to your truck?"

Gaping at the pronounced dent and scarred surface of the trailer, Mark shook his head in stunned confusion. "That's … that can't … I didn't hit anything."

The taller detective snorted and began reading him his rights. Two patrol cars pulled up, and the other cop told the uniforms to secure the transport and get samples of the scraped paint back to the lab on the double. Then he opened up the back of the truck … to find boxes and boxes of kiwi fruit. McCormick's jaw tightened. Collagio had played him for a fool, implicating him in something, he didn't know what, but leaving King Transport looking clean. What the hell was going on?

When they started to pull him toward the sedan, Mark dug in his heels. "Just hold on a minute!" he protested. "Where's Hardcastle? He can tell you I'm one of the good guys!"

"Like you don't know," the short detective grunted angrily.

"Know? Know what?" Mark demanded sharply, but they weren't listening to him, just kept pulling him ruthlessly toward their car where they shoved him into the backseat.

Bewildered, Mark looked from one to the other and out through the windshield at the back of the semi. Hauling kiwi fruit was no crime so they were arresting him for something else. As the significance of the badly scraped and dented side merged with the furious way they were treating him and the cryptic comment about the Judge, his eyes widened and his stomach plummeted. "What … what's happened to Hardcastle," he gasped.

"Shut up," the tall one snapped.

Swallowing hard, Mark sagged against the back seat. Fear cramped in his chest and he felt as if he couldn't get enough air. The Judge … oh, God. What had happened to Hardcase? "Tell me, tell me he's okay," he pleaded shakily, his voice catching on the words, needing so badly to know Milt was alright.

"I said, shut the hell up."

00000

McKendrick called in his small army of detectives and State Patrol cars, quickly surrounding the three semis and boxing in the warehouse before the perps knew what had hit them. After a token exchange of gunfire, Cates, Grimsby, Mac and the five men in the warehouse gave up and threw down their weapons. As they were being cuffed, Lou shook his head. "Mort," he drawled, "the Warden's been looking for you. And, Lonny," he continued sarcastically, "Tut, tut. Associating with known felons? That's a parole violation for you, me boy. You'll be sharing a cell with your buddy, Mort."

Turning away, he went to check out what was in the trailers. When he saw the tear-streaked, terrified faces of girls no older than fifteen and some a whole lot younger, emaciated and pale with horror, he had to swallow the bile that rose to burn the back of his throat, and bite back the anger that surged in his soul. Yelling to a patrolman to call in as many ambulances as he could get, Lou ran back to his car. Leaning inside, he grabbed his radio and called Dispatch to patch him through to his Captain. "We got three King Transport rigs full of starving Asian girls – very young and _very_ scared," he reported, deeply relieved to have found and saved them before they'd disappeared into the sleazy underworld of prostitute and vice. "More than enough grounds to bring in the Collagio boys."

"Good work," his superior replied. "Very good work. I'll coordinate security for the girls and have the Collagios picked up. I want you back here to run the interrogations."

00000

Mark tried to sit patiently at the table in the interrogation room of FBI Headquarters, but he was too keyed up, too worried. Something had happened to Milt. Something possibly bad. Maybe very bad. He tried pacing, but the cell-like, dismal room was too small, making him feel caged. And he tried very hard not to jump to the worst of possible conclusions. Hardcase was a tough nut to crack. He'd be okay. Had to be okay. Resisting the urge to smash one of the chairs against the wall in frustration, he slumped back into his seat and drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. "C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, "somebody tell me what the hell's going on here."

After an anxiety-fraught ninety minutes, the door opened and Lou McKendrick walked in.

"_Finally_," he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Where's Hardcastle? What's happened to him?" he demanded, his voice rough with worry. "And who, may I ask, are you?"

"Sit down, McCormick," Lou ordered him brusquely, pulling out the chair on the opposite side of the table and settling in it. He set down the tape recorder he was carrying and turned it on, intoning the date, time, his name, rank, and McCormick's name.

"Oh, for –" Mark growled as he sat and glared alternatively at the tape recorder and FBI Special Agent Louis McKendrick. "Fine, I'm sitting. What's going on? Why won't anyone tell me anything?"

"Maybe because you're our best suspect for the attempted homicide late this afternoon of Milton C. Hardcastle," the detective told him bluntly.

Mark paled and swallowed hard. "Is he … is he alright?" When Lou looked away, Mark sank back against his chair, his hands falling limply into his lap. "He's not alright, is he? Or he'd already've told you how stupid this is. Oh, God," he sighed, shaking his head slowly, numbly, as if absorbing a staggering blow. "How bad … how badly is he hurt? What happened to him?"

"I take it your story is that you're innocent," Lou replied sarcastically.

Narrowing his eyes, giving the detective a long, pained look, Mark rasped, "Look, I want to see Frank Harper at LAPD. He'll tell you what was going down."

"You can't; Lieutenant Harper is out of town."

"What? When did that happen? We just saw him earlier today? Where is he?" Mark babbled, feeling as if he was caught in a nightmare that just twisted and morphed into something worse and worse.

Glancing at his watch, Lou shrugged. "I guess he's somewhere over the Atlantic on a flight to Italy."

"_Italy?_" Mark echoed, his mouth dropping open. "Why's he going to _Italy_?"

"That's not relevant to our discussion," McKendrick replied flatly.

Holding up his hands in defeat, Mark dazedly shook his head. "Okay, okay, let's start over. You want my statement? For the record? Okay, for the record, Hardcastle and I were working with Frank to get the goods on Mario Collagio. Frank heard that there was a big shipment of something illegal that needed to be moved urgently, and that Collagio was short a driver."

"Who'd he allegedly hear this from?"

Shrugging, Mark lifted his palms. "How should I know? One of his snitches. Anyway, he set it up for me to apply for the job."

"Set it up how?"

Rolling his eyes, knowing how unconvincing his statement sounded, Mark sighed. "He talked to a guy who knew a guy."

"Talked to a guy who knew a guy; uh huh," Lou grunted, vastly unimpressed. "You're going to have to do better than that."

Mark's lips thinned with frustration. His tone was hard, edgy, as he leaned his arms on the table and continued, "Frank authorized us to use some departmental equipment that was issued to Hardcastle early this afternoon: a listening device that I carried and a directional locator that I put on the trailer I was hauling." Scrabbling in his pocket, he pulled out the crumpled package of gum and ripped it open to reveal the transmitter. "There," he said. "Hardcase was listening in from his truck and following the signal from the directional transmitter. But, uh, there were cameras outside King Transport and, and I think they might have spotted him before he moved on. If he moved on. I haven't seen him since I went into the building to see about the job. I met with Mario Collagio and his brother, Tony. They, uh, they seemed suspicious but needed a driver in a hurry so they, they assigned me a rig. They said if I crossed them, they'd kill me. Personally, I think they planned to waste me as soon as the run was done. Before we left for the docks, I saw Mario talking to Grimsby and the dispatcher – that's probably when he ordered the hit on Hardcase. Anyway we – four trucks – went to the docks and loaded up, and then we set out for the warehouse on Desert Parkway. Only the lead guy, Lonny Cates, had us all pull over at a truck stop about twenty minutes from our destination. He told the other guy, Mac something, and me to get something to eat. He waited outside for Mort Grimsby, who'd fallen behind."

He closed his eyes and his jaw clenched. "Fell behind, hell. He must've been waiting for Hardcastle and ambushed him. Anyway, later, when we were leaving, he told me there was a change of plans and the rest of them were going to another location." Swallowing, Mark leaned forward. "They must've switched the trailers while Mac and I were inside. Look, you can check it out. If there's no directional locator under the rear end of the trailer, it's not the one I started out with." His jaw tightened and he growled, "Now, _tell _me what happened to Milt."

"You tell an interesting story," Lou allowed, scratching his cheek and thinking about the directional device on the truck Grimsby had been driving. "But the tape we recovered from the recorder in the Judge's truck makes it sound as if you were looking for a quick way to make some extra cash so you could go on the lam. He might have suspected something and been following you. Your part in this could have nothing to do with Frank setting up a sting or with the Collagio brothers, or maybe you just grabbed the opportunity to off Hardcastle without anyone suspecting it was you." Pausing, he pursed his lips. "With no one to corroborate your story, we're left with the fact that you were driving the transport that forced Hardcastle's pickup off the highway. There are flakes of paint on your rig that match the pickup – and vice versa. Plus, we've got a witness that reports it was a King Transport. That's a one-way ticket back to San Quentin, you know that, don't you?"

Mark had gone very still. "Forced off the road?" he rasped, his voice thin. "Where?" In the silence, his gaze darted around the room, his lips moving soundlessly as he struggled to form the question. "He's … he's gonna be okay, right? He's … tell me he's …."

Lou's mouth twisted as he studied McCormick and then he looked away.

Erupting with helpless frustration and fear, Mark surged to his feet, his chair crashing backward to the floor. "Dammit!" he shouted. "Is he dying, is that it? Is that what you won't say?" Swallowing convulsively in the continuing silence, tears burning his eyes, he whispered brokenly, "Where? Where is he? I have to see him."

McKendrick sighed. "You know better than that. You're about to be charged with –"

"Oh, come on," Mark cut in furiously. "For two _years_ I've risked my ass to help him nail guys that the rest of you couldn't catch! Okay, so you don't know me, fine. Check with the people in Frank's office. They'll tell you. Check the damned files. I've helped Hardcase put dozens of bad guys behind bars. And why the _hell_ would I want to kill him? He's my …." His voice caught and broke, and he panted with his effort to hold back his emotions. "My best … best friend."

Lou looked up at him, studied him thoughtfully. "You get a phone call."

"Then get me a number where I can reach Frank," he snapped. Struggling for control, he raked shaking fingers through his hair. Heaving a breath, holding out his hands, glaring at McKendrick, he growled, "I don't give a shit, okay? I don't give a damn right now what you think of me, or if I'm goin' back to Quentin. But … but before you send me there, you have to let me see him. Would you just check out my story? Talk to some people in the precinct; they'll tell you, they'll _all_ tell you that I would _never_ hurt that man."

"Alright," Lou decided. "I'll check things out with the LAPD." Standing, he sighed. "If your story holds water, then you'll be free to go."

Mark looked like it might kill him to wait. Twisting away, he rubbed the back of his neck and bowed his head. "Just … just hurry, would you?" he asked huskily. "If … if things are as bad with him as … as …."

"Shouldn't take long," Lou told him as he snapped off the tape recorder and carried it out of the room.

Mark turned in a slow circle and then leaned against the wall, his expression stricken. "Ah, Judge," he husked, sounding lost as he slid down to the floor and, curling forward, his elbows braced on upraised knees, covered his face with his hands.

00000

Fifteen minutes later, McKendrick was back, looking chagrined. Waving to McCormick to follow him into the hall, he said, "Sorry, I should have checked you out before coming to all the wrong conclusions based on circumstantial facts. Your story … well, it seemed pretty far-fetched, but the people at LAPD back you up."

"Whatever," Mark replied as they strode down the hall. "Where's Hardcastle and how bad is it?"

"Mercy Hospital," Lou replied as they reached a bank of elevators and he pushed the down button. "I'll take you over there." He hesitated and then went on, "He's in bad shape. When his pickup went over the edge, he was either thrown or he jumped and hit the ground hard. Multiple contusions, broken bones, internal bleeding, skull fracture." Glancing at his watch as the elevator doors opened and they entered, he said, "He was still in surgery when I last checked."

Mark averted his face as he absorbed the information. "He's a tough old bird," he murmured, striving for hope. "Few broken bones won't take him outta the game."

The elevator opened on the parking garage beneath the federal building. "It's the head injury that's bad. That and the shock and blood loss," Lou replied soberly as he led the way to his sedan. Mark darted a look at him but didn't respond.

They'd driven several blocks before Mark roused from his reverie and straightened in the seat. "You get the other guys?"

Nodding, Lou told him, "I knew Harper had issued Hardcastle a directional locator and that they were after Collagio, so when the other semis turned off, I followed the beacon. We got them all, and we've brought in Mario and Antonio Collagio for questioning. We also rescued dozens and dozens of very badly frightened and abused young girls."

"Well, that's somethin', I guess," he said distantly, sickened by the kind of callous cruelty that traded in human flesh. "At least … at least it wasn't all for nothing. Hardcase would be … well, he'd be furious if they'd gotten away. He'd be real glad we saved those girls."

Chewing on his lip, McKendrick frowned.

"What?" Mark asked.

Sighing, Lou replied, "The Collagio brothers are denying any knowledge of what was in those containers, as are the drivers. According to them, King Transport is simply a conveyer of containers from one place to another, and they aren't responsible for what the contracting agency sealed inside the shipment. I expect we'll find such a convoluted trail of paper and dummy corporations that we'll never sort out who really owns the company in Asia that kidnapped and shipped those girls. And, the three drivers are also sticking to their story that you were the one who had fallen back, implying you're the one who took out Hardcastle. All we've got in this case is your testimony – and, well …."

"I'm an ex-con," McCormick finished for him, sounding bitter, "with zip credibility with a jury. And there are no prints on the trailer that hit Hardcastle, right? Nothing to prove it was Grimsby driving?"

"You got it," Lou told him.

"So … what are you saying? They make a hit on Hardcase and they get a walk? Come on!"

Lou shrugged and kept on driving. Finally, as if offering a consolation prize, he said, "We're still trying to find out how Grimsby escaped from Quentin but, regardless, he's going back to do his consecutive life terms without parole. By associating with Grimsby and, well, you, Cates is in violation of his parole, so he'll be going to San Quentin, too, to finish out his sentence while we try to nail him on this latest escapade. The Collagio brothers? We'll do our best to make a case for slave trading but … well, it's too soon to toss in the towel. Right now, there's nothing to connect them to the assault on Hardcastle. The only one who might get away scot-free by claiming he was an innocent dupe is the third driver, Duncan MacNeil, but – if he was clean – he wouldn't be siding with them and trying to hang you for the attack on Judge Hardcastle."

"Oh, he might be clean." Mark sighed and rubbed his face. "Just damned scared that if he doesn't back the others, he'll wind up dead." He paused and frowned. "What about the dispatcher? He must've heard the order for the hit," Mark demanded.

"He's family; one of their uncles," Lou replied hollowly, as if that said it all, and it probably did.

Mark stared somberly at him for a long moment and then, crossing his arms, he turned away, his brow furrowing in thought.

00000

When they arrived at the hospital, they learned that Hardcastle was still in surgery. The receptionist at Admitting advised them that the physician in Emergency would have the most recent information about his condition. Since Hardcastle had come in alone and unconscious, she gave Mark a number of forms to fill out for insurance billing and the hospital files.

"I'll take these with me," he said, holding up the documents, "and bring them back after I've talked to the doctor." She nodded and turned her attention to the ringing phone.

In Emergency, they were advised the doctor was busy with patients, to have a seat in the lounge, and to wait.

Frustrated by yet another delay in finding out how Hardcastle was, Mark had to restrain his impulse to hit something. Wordlessly, he grimly nodded and led Lou into the waiting area. To keep his mind occupied with something other than worry, he dropped onto one of the dingy, plastic chairs and got busy filling out the forms. Lou settled on the next chair and idly watched him fill in the blanks.

Almost immediately, Mark had to stop and pull out his wallet to find Hardcastle's insurance number.

"You carry his insurance information around with you?" Lou murmured, surprised.

Not looking up as he copied the data down, Mark nodded. "Yeah, well, given the jams we can get ourselves into, we decided awhile ago to carry this information for one another just in case … well, just in case." He lapsed back into silence as he continued to fill in the various boxes on the documents. His pen paused again when he got to 'Next of Kin'. Sighing, he closed his eyes. "I have to call his brother and his aunts," he murmured. "They need to know …."

"Are they in town?" Lou asked.

"No," Mark replied with a slight shake of his head.

"Then you should probably put your name in the Next of Kin box," Lou advised. "Or his lawyer, in the event that …." But his voice died at the flash of pain that swept over Mark's features. "Your name will do, for now," he finished lamely.

"Feels, I don't know, presumptuous or something," Mark demurred, and wrote in the lawyer's name and number. But he didn't hesitate to put his own name in the box labeled, 'Emergency Contact'.

Once the forms were done, he sat back and, leaning his head against the wall behind him, he closed his eyes. A frown puckered his brow and he again sat forward, his arms crossed and his head bowed. There had to be way to nail the Collagio brothers, both for the transporting of the girls and for the attempted homicide. But he couldn't seem to think straight. All he could think about was Hardcase; God, it hurt to think …. His thoughts stalled and his gut cramped with nausea at the possibility that Hardcastle might not make it. He couldn't go there, couldn't put his fear into words, even in the silence of his own head. Just could not imagine his life without Hardcastle's solid presence and energy driving events forward, making at least their part of the world a better place to be.

"Mr. McCormick?"

Straightening, he looked up into the weary eyes of a middle-aged man in a lab coat. "Yeah, I'm Mark McCormick," he said, standing. "You're the doctor who took care of Milton Hardcastle?"

"Yes, I'm Doctor Saunders. What can I do for you?"

"I, uh, I'm Milton Hardcastle's emergency contact and I need to know how badly he was hurt and, and what his chances are," Mark replied, his voice tight with tension.

Saunders nodded and rubbed his mouth as he recollected the details of one of the dozens of patients he'd seen that evening. "He was in bad shape when he was brought in," he said thoughtfully. "Blood pressure was falling, pulse was erratic; he'd lost a good deal of blood, was bleeding internally, and was in deep shock. He'd sustained multiple injuries, both superficial and severe. The most serious were the skull fracture – he had already slipped into a coma – and the hemo-pneumothorax, uh, his right lung was badly ruptured by one of the broken ribs and was collapsing, compressing his heart. We stabilized the lung, called in a thoracic, er, chest surgeon, an orthopedic specialist to address the broken arm and collarbone and the cracked femur, and a neurosurgeon. They are all working on him now: one repairing his lung, one setting or at least stabilizing the bone injuries to his left arm, collarbone and leg, and one relieving the pressure resulting from edema and bleeding into the skull." Glancing up at the clock high on the wall, he said, "I expect that he may be in surgery for some time yet."

When he paused again, Mark prompted, "And … his chances?"

Dr. Saunders pursed his lips and shook his head. "I can't really predict that with any certainty. Mr. Hardcastle is in very critical condition. The extent of the trauma in a man of his age …. But, he was evidently very fit, which gives him a fighting chance. A lot depends on the head injury. Doctor Wilkins, the neurosurgeon, will be able to tell you more later on tonight."

"Okay, well, uh, that's better than no chance at all, right? The Judge is as strong as an ox and as determined, as stubborn, as a mule. He won't … he doesn't know how to give up." Mark responded with fragile optimism, desperately clutching at whatever hope he could hold onto. He took a shaky breath and held out his hand. "Thank you, for all the help you gave him tonight," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"You're welcome," Saunders replied as they shook. "Just doing my job."

After the doctor had left, Mark simply stood silently, staring at nothing, until Lou rose and touched his shoulder. "Guess we can go on upstairs to the waiting room there," he suggested quietly.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure," Mark agreed distantly, sounding weary and numb. He dropped off the forms on their way to the elevators.

When they got off the elevator on the second floor, Lou stopped by the coffee machine in the hall and got them each a fortifying, if bitter, disposable cup of high-test java. The small waiting lounge, filled with out-of-date magazines and old but comfortable furniture, was a few steps further along the corridor.

Mark sighed as he sat down and blew on the hot beverage. After taking a tentative sip and wincing at both the heat and the strength of the brew, he looked at Lou. "I appreciate you bringing me over here, but you don't have to keep me company," he said.

"I'm not sure about that," McKendrick disagreed. "Right now, you're the only witness we've got and the Collagio boys know that."

Mark squinted at him in surprise, not having thought about any continuing threat to his own life. But then he shrugged. "Thanks, but I really doubt that they take me any more seriously than a jury would," he muttered as he sat back in his chair. "Besides, for all they know, I'm still your best suspect for the hit on Hardcase, right?"

Lou shrugged one shoulder and nodded as he sipped on his coffee, and silence fell between them.

00000

One hundred and fifteen excruciatingly slow, anxiety-ridden minutes trickled past before the automatic double doors just outside the lounge whooshed open. A short, lean man in surgical scrubs, a mask still dangling around his neck, emerged and turned toward them. Mark stood, his gaze raking the surgeon's face for any clues of the news he bore.

The doctor caught his eyes and nodded. "You must be Mr. McCormick. There was a note on the chart that you were waiting out here."

Nodding, Mark rasped, "Is he going to be okay?"

Waving Mark back to his chair, the physician introduced himself to Lou as he sat down across from them. "I'm Dr. Reg Wilkins and I'm a neurosurgeon, a brain specialist. And you are?"

"Special Agent Louis McKendrick, FBI."

"Ah," he nodded, curiosity flashing briefly in his eyes. Returning his attention to Mark, he went on, "We've accessed Mr. Hardcastle's medical files from Records and I've already called Charlie Friedman, his personal physician, whom I know well, to bring him up to speed. He told me he has a copy of the Judge's living will and Power of Attorney which, in brief, name you as his next of kin and give you full decision-making powers."

Mark paled. "What?" he gasped, and then went on, "but we won't need any of that, right? C'mon, Doc, you're beginning to scare me here."

"We certainly don't need any of that right now but, in these cases, it's good to be prepared," Wilkins went on, his tones low and kind. "Your friend is not in good shape." Pulling off his surgical cap and absently rubbing short, bristly black hair shot with gray, he continued, "The surgery was long and complicated but necessary. Unfortunately, in his already weakened state that put considerable stress on his body, and we nearly lost him more than once on the table." He paused, and Mark nodded gravely, his expression intent and troubled. "Right now, he's in Recovery and we'll be moving him to Intensive Care in a few minutes. You'll be able to see him then. Mr. Hardcastle is in a coma, Mark. Do you know what that means?"

"Uh, well, that he's unresponsive and can't be awakened," he replied, his voice tight. "_Right now_," he added in a rush, implying it could only be a matter of time before Hardcastle regained consciousness. "He can't be awakened right now."

"That's correct," Wilkins told him. "There are four levels of coma and we can tell which level by the brain wave activity on the electroencephalogram, er, EEG, the way his pupils react to light, and by response to pain and other reflex stimuli, if any. When he came in, Judge Hardcastle was in a deep coma with no evident response to stimuli. I've relieved the pressure inside his skull and given him medication to keep his brain well sedated to allow it to rest and heal. He will not wake up for at least two days, if he wakes at all. After I've stopped sedating him, we'll take another EEG and I'll have a better idea if he's responding to the treatment or not."

His gaze flickering over the doctor's face, his fists clenching around the arms of his chair, Mark struggled to retain control of his emotions. He rubbed his face and looked away, drew in a couple shuddering breaths, and then nodded. "I understand," he rasped. He took another deep breath and then asked timorously and yet still with determined hope, "When, not if, _when_ he wakes up, do you think there will be … will be any, uh, damage?"

"Honestly, I don't know yet," Wilkins replied. "I'm sorry, I wish I could be more precise. Give it a few days and we'll see how his brain function is after he's off the sedation and the edema, uh, swelling of his brain has subsided." When Mark's shadowed gaze dropped away, and he again nodded mutely, Wilkins said, "As for his other injuries, his damaged lung is again fully inflated and functioning well, which has taken the strain off his heart. We've got a chest tube in him that will make sure it stays that way and to facilitate healing. The broken bones have been addressed; they were all simple fractures and should heal without complications. He lost a fair amount of skin, I suppose from skidding over rocky ground after he jumped or was thrown from his vehicle. That looks bad but is largely superficial and should heal with minimal scarring. It's really all about his head injury and how his brain responds."

A small, sad smile played around the corner of Mark's mouth. "That man has the most impressive brain I've ever known and he's got a will of iron," he murmured quietly. "He doesn't know the meaning of the word, 'quit'. If anyone can recover from these kinds of injuries, he will." Looking up at the specialist, he asked anxiously, "When you say he's unaware and that he's not responding to stimuli, does that mean he's not feeling any pain, at least right now?"

"Your friend is no pain, I can assure you of that," Wilkins said kindly.

"Good," Mark replied huskily. "I'm glad he's not suffering. Really glad."

00000

Nearly another half an hour passed before Mark was allowed into the restricted Intensive Care Unit on the fourth floor. As he walked down the brightly lit corridor past several glass-walled cubicles where patients lay on narrow beds, most of them hooked up to myriad machines and looking insensible, he steeled himself for what he'd see what he finally got to his friend's side.

But nothing could prepare him for the reality. Anguish filled his face and his eyes burned as he walked slowly into the small, equipment-packed room. The left side of the Judge's face was scraped raw and one eye was bluish-black and swollen closed. The abrasions on his chest and left arm were clear evidence that his skin had nearly been flayed off by the stones and pebbles he'd skidded over – the rest of his body was probably in no better shape, Mark supposed, but the sheet drawn up over Hardcastle's legs and abdomen hid the contusions. Some of the gashes and gouges had required butterfly sutures. Wires linked him to the monotonously beating heart monitor and the blood pressure monitor. A breathing tube, secured by adhesive tape, protruded from his mouth and was linked to the respirator that thunked and whooshed quietly. Another tube drained bloody fluid from under the bandage on the side of his chest to a sealed, glass bottle partially filled with water that was hooked under the bed, next to other sacks linked by other tubes draining away waste. One intravenous line ran a clear liquid and a second was filled with what looked like blood. The Judge's left forearm was in a cast supported by a sling that took the weight off his damaged collarbone and, under the sheet, Mark could see the shape of a brace supporting his thigh to buffer and stabilize the cracked femur.

_God, dear God, he could so easily have been killed and be lying in the morgue now, not here, not struggling to survive._

It was bad, but the worst, the absolute worst, was the lax stillness of the Judge's body and features, and the dull, flat emptiness that Mark could see in one half-opened eye. For a long moment, Mark stood frozen by the bed, his fists clenched and the ache was so tight in his chest that he wasn't sure he'd be able to breathe again. Conflicting, overwhelming emotions swept over him, a tsunami of hollow helplessness that rose from his gut and gathered power in his chest, wringing his heart with grief and sorrow and anguish, and then curled higher, blinding him with fury, with fierce rage that Milt had been hurt like this by those bastards and for what? For having integrity and courage and the moral strength to do something solid to right the wrongs, to make life safer for the innocent, to get the monsters off the street and in jail where they belonged?

And those ruthless, pieces of human garbage who did this, who traded in innocent, frightened young girls, were probably going to get away with it.

He could _not_ let that happen. Could not let this, the Judge's suffering, be in vain.

He couldn't just stand there and leave the seeking for justice to others.

Hardcase had taught him that the judicial system had its value and purpose, but it depended on individuals who were willing to act, who would put what they stood for on the line. A single individual could make the critical difference if he could be in the right place at the right time.

The right place. The right time.

For a measure of heartbeats, he quailed at the prospect of what he was considering – no, _knew_ – had to be done. What _he_ had to do. He looked away from the Judge's battered visage; his jaw clenched and his eyes pressed closed, holding his breath, he battled with the cold horror that crept over him. And then he exhaled with a long sigh and swallowed hard. "God hates a coward but loves a fool, huh, Kemosabe?" he whispered hoarsely.

Sniffing, he swiped at his eyes and rubbed his nose; took another steadying breath. Turning to face the man who was more father than any man had ever been in his life, more stalwart friend than he had any right to claim, he reached out to lightly grip the Judge's left wrist. Sighing, he sought words but he didn't know what to say; sure didn't know if Milt could hear him, though he'd heard that people in comas still had some deep awareness and that words, talking to them, could help.

Forcing lightness into his voice that he in no way felt, he teased gently, "Well, you really are one tough piece of shoe leather, Hardcastle. I keep tellin' ya that you've got a thick skull – guess, for once, you decided to prove me right, huh? Gotta say, though, that you're going to have one helluva headache when you wake up. You're a little beat-up, a bit worse for wear, but … you beat them. You survived. And you _will_ wake up, won't you, because you're a stubborn, pain-in-the-ass donkey who just doesn't know how to quit."

His voice cracked, nearly broke, and he struggled against the tears that burned his eyes. Gently, he stroked his hand over Milt's brow and hair; drew a strangled breath to dislodge the lump in his throat. Leaning closer, he murmured, "I … I won't be able to stay with you, Judge. But that doesn't mean I've abandoned you, you know? I'm counting on you to do your job, to fight, to get strong again, okay? And … and I'm going to do my job. Gonna saddle up Scout and do what needs to be done. Just, just know this, Milt: whatever happens, however it turns out, you gave me a shot at a better life than I ever dreamed was possible. You gave me hope. And you gave me the chance to be proud of the man I am. I'll owe you for all that until I take my last breath."

He hesitated, and then went on with deep sincerity, "You're the best man I've ever known, Milton Hardcastle; the only real father I've ever had; and a far better friend than I probably deserve. I've never respected or admired anyone more than I do you." Pausing, bowing his head – wondering if he'd ever see the Judge alive again – he took a deep breath, bent forward and kissed Hardcastle's forehead. "I love you, you crazy old coot," he whispered hoarsely.

Sniffing, he straightened and tenderly brushed the backs of his fingers along Milt's cheek. "I gotta go, Judge," he said softly. "You … you rest, you hear me? And don't be giving the nurses a lot of grief, okay?" He bit his lip and nodded to himself, satisfied that he'd found the best words he could, had said all that he just _had_ to say in case, well, in case he never saw the man again. Taking a step away from the bed, he let go of Hardcastle's wrist. "Be good, Judge. Be strong and … heal. Just heal."

After one last, long poignant look, he straightened his shoulders and, his expression resolute, he turned and strode swiftly from the room. First, he went to the nursing station, to leave instructions in accordance with the authority Hardcase had given him in his living will. Then, he headed back down the hall to where McKendrick waited in yet another lounge.

Lou tossed aside the magazine he'd been leafing through and stood when he came through the heavy door. Mark looked briefly back over his shoulder through the glass panel at the hallway he'd just traversed and the doorway to Hardcastle's cubicle, and then he determinedly faced the federal agent. "You need to send me back to San Quentin," he said flatly.

Startled by the unexpected statement, McKendrick narrowed his gaze and gave a short, shake of his head. "I don't think I heard you right," he replied. "What did you just say?"

"I said, you have to send me to San Quentin," Mark repeated, his tone firm. Taking a step toward Lou, he explained, "I'm a two-time loser who was caught stealing another car. Hardcastle put me in his judicial stay and took responsibility for me but he can't exercise that responsibility now. I'm still on parole and was caught associating with a known felon, Grimsby, and another ex-con, Cates. I'm your prime suspect for the attack on his life. You really have no choice. You have to send me back."

"You _want_ me to send you to Quentin," Lou clarified, still trying to make sense of what McCormick was saying.

"Think about it," Mark went on, striving to sound reasonable and not completely insane. "Cates and Grimsby have been sent back there already, right? Well, if I'm there, I can work on them; get them to turn on the Collagio boys."

Snorting, Lou shook his head. "You gotta be kidding me," he protested, holding up his hands. "There's no deal that can be offered to either of them. Grimsby's already in for life – he's got nothing to gain by talking."

"No?" Mark argued, his tone low, intense. "Right now, he's a loose end, the only real link between Collagio and the attack. He might not like wiling his time away in the big house, but the man dearly loves to breathe. He won't be doing that much longer unless he tells what he knows. I can get him to talk." When Lou again shook his head, he persisted, "And Cates? Now _there's_ a man who maybe we _can_ deal with. For one thing, he's not as stupid as Grimsby. He knows he's an accessory to attempted homicide now, not to mention the transportation of those poor kidnapped kids to make them into sexual slaves – and he _really_ won't want to serve another twenty to forty years, trust me on that. But if you make him an offer cold, he'll balk, too afraid of the kind of retribution the Collagios specialize in. He needs to be softened up a bit, have his best interests clarified for him."

"One," Lou argued, ticking the points off on his fingers, "you're no longer my prime suspect – you're the _only_ _witness_ I have if we're going to make a case against the Collagios. Two, the theft of the Coyote was cleared from the books when you helped nail Martin Cody for Flip Johnston's murder – I got that from my source at the precinct. Three, you've helped put a lot of very nasty and dangerous people away in the past two years and most of them are in San Quentin; your life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel inside those walls. Four, you were working undercover on an operation with an officer of the court, and with the full knowledge and support of the LAPD. And, five, despite the fact that the Judge is unable to take responsibility for you right now, you can be released under your own recognizance – or more likely, be placed in a safehouse where Mario Collagio can't get to you. He can get to you in prison."

"You know, if you go confusing the situation with facts, we're not going to get anywhere," Mark chided and waved McKendrick to a seat. Sitting down, facing the agent, he argued, "We both know that with my record, I'm useless to you as a witness. The man who has to be put under twenty-four hour protection is lying down that hall and we're both gonna pray that he wakes up." Leaning back in his chair, he gazed at the entry to ICU. "I agree that going back to San Quentin will be … potentially hazardous to my health," he allowed fatalistically, his voice tight. Turning back to Lou, he suggested, "Maybe you could influence the Warden to put me in a cell on my own, so I can at least go to sleep without worrying about waking up dead. And all three of us need to be in the same cellblock, assigned to the same work and recreation schedules if I'm going to have a chance to work on them. And yeah, sure, there are others there who, uh, don't owe me any favors, but the guards are there to ensure our collective security."

"Collagio can find one who needs money," Lou said repressively.

"Maybe." Mark shrugged. "But most of 'em are just doing their jobs as well as they can." Leaning forward, he said soberly, "You told me on the way over here that, basically, you've got nothing. This is our _one_ chance to shake something loose. If … if the Judge doesn't wake up, it's probably the _only_ chance we've got to nail these guys. And I'm the only guy who can do it."

Grimacing, Lou looked away. "I don't like it," he muttered. "You'll end up dead, and what will that serve?" He rubbed the back of his neck and turned back to McCormick. "Why? Why would you even consider taking such risks?"

"Well, Lou, it's like this," Mark replied quietly. "That man in there – he's taught me that if justice is going to work, then individuals can't just sit around and hope that things'll be fine. We _all_ have to do what's right, take action to support the law, regardless of the risks. I have to do whatever I can to get the guys who did this to him. He's earned that much; deserves that much. And, well, I … I wouldn't be the man he'd want me to be if I didn't at least try. I have to try, Lou. I _have_ to give it my best shot."

McKendrick studied him for a long moment, the silence growing taut between them. Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes … and finally nodded. "Okay, Mark," he conceded. "I'll call the Warden."

"And you'll order round-the-clock protection for Hardcase?"

"Yeah, yeah, no question; I've already called LAPD to make the arrangements," he agreed.

Satisfied, Mark nodded and stood, fished in his pocket. "Uh, would you do me one other favour?" he asked tentatively as he held out the keys to the Coyote. "I left my car outside King Transport. If it's still there and in one piece, maybe somebody could drive it back to Gulls Way for me."

Lou rolled his eyes – but he took the keys.

00000

Eight hours later, his wrists enclosed in steel manacles and his ankles bound by leg irons, Mark blindly stared at the familiar California landscape rushing by the dingy windows of the prison transport bus. Numb with exhaustion, his heart heavy, he'd rarely felt more torn in his life. More than anything, he wanted to be close to Hardcastle, standing sentry, there if he was needed, if only to know from minute to minute that Milt was still alive, still fighting the battle for his life. But he knew he couldn't do any good there. He'd just be in the way. Knew he had to stay the course and complete the case they'd begun together; for Hardcase, to obtain justice for what was done to him – and for himself, too, to know he'd done all in his power to make things right. The people Collagio and his brother hurt were mostly strangers, people they'd never know, but Hardcase … well, those people mattered to Milt. So, yeah, this was for Hardcastle, to finish what the Judge started, to save those strangers they'd never meet, people who wouldn't even know their lives had been spared if he could put the Collagios away: other girls who wouldn't be stolen from their homes, kids who wouldn't be killed by illegal and too available drugs, or shot down by weapons that should never have made their way to the streets. An ironic smile hovered briefly over his lips as he imagined himself on some great, heroic quest to do battle with monsters and right wrongs.

But then chains clanked and someone on the seats behind him cursed darkly.

_Some quest_, he snorted disparagingly to himselfFeeling the weight of the chains that bound him, he shook his head ruefully. _Some hero._

He was going back to prison, back to his personal house of horrors, the inescapable, hellish dreamscape of still-persistent nightmares. Dismal gray-green walls and clanging, cold iron bars; open, communal showers and the indefinable stench of an institution that housed desperate, brutal and hopeless men. Howls of rage or terror in the night; chaotic noise almost all the damned time, so bad he could hardly think. Perpetually dancing along the thin line between cocky clown and subservient no-account to discourage bullies and lunatics from rearranging his face – or worse – for the hell of it. Lumpy mashed potatoes, the mind-numbing grind of boring, make-work activities to teach him skills he had no interest in having, and the tedium of endless games of baseball that counted for nothing and mattered to no one. Closing his eyes, fighting the nausea that left him feeling fragile and queasy, his throat thick with dread, he struggled to master the virulent aversion he felt knowing he was again going to be trapped, locked down, held prisoner, powerless and afraid, always afraid.

God, was it only yesterday morning that he'd been so damned happy? Only yesterday that he'd told himself the fairytale life couldn't last – even though he'd hoped it would. He'd hoped so _hard_ that it would.

Flinching away from his dreary musings, wary of the distraction of emotions and fears that could get him killed, Mark frowned and forcefully willed himself to think about something else, anything else. His expression tight and closed, he reflected upon the arrangements that had been made during the dark hours of the preceding night. Beyond being seriously annoyed about being awoken in the middle of the night, the Warden hadn't wanted any part of the gambit. He had insisted it was lunacy and that he couldn't accept responsibility for Mark's safety short of putting him in isolation as a protected prisoner – an unacceptable option that defeated the purpose. He needed to be close to Cates and Grimsby to work his mojo on them. However reluctantly, McKendrick had persisted, threatening to call the Governor if need be, and had grudgingly won the concessions that Mark needed when the Warden finally agreed to assign him a cell on his own in the same cellblock, on the same level, as Cates and Grimsby.

A few minutes after that, they'd worked out the details. Ostensibly, he was being charged with the attempted murder of Hardcastle and, having violated the terms of his parole, he was being returned to prison pending a new trial. Mark also asked for the guard roster for each shift. The Warden had huffed impatiently and said he'd have to call back with that information. When he did, he advised them that, oddly enough, it turned out there was an empty cell right next to the one his targets had been assigned, a fortuitous circumstance that Mark chose to see as a sign of cosmic support. He quickly thought about the guards the Warden named and, remembering most of them well, he designated one on each shift who would be informed of his mad venture. Not much backup, but at least there would someone who could quickly get the word out to Lou, if he achieved what he was hoping for – or if he got into trouble too deep to handle on his own. The same guards would pass him information from McKendrick, about the progress on the case at his end, if any, and regular updates about Hardcastle's condition.

"Be damned careful, Mark," Lou had lectured as he'd personally placed the manacles on McCormick's wrists. "Anyone suspects you're a plant, you're dead, just on principle. You'll be on your own, with no backup and surrounded by too many men with personal grudges against you and Hardcastle." McKendrick had gone still before attaching the leg irons. Looking up at Mark, he said with rough concern, "You don't have to do this. Nobody expects you to take such risks."

"Nobody but me," he'd replied wryly. "I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror, Lou. Nobody else can do that for me."

But now, as the bus neared his destination, Mark couldn't help thinking about what Lou had said; that he'd be on his own. Throughout nearly all of his life, up until the last two years, he pretty much always had been on his own. He hadn't forgotten the loneliness of having no one to count on besides himself; but he'd grown used to having Hardcastle's solid, dependable presence in his corner. For the first time since his mother had died, he had someone he could unquestionably rely upon and trust implicitly, no matter what. Oh, sure, he'd been skeptical at first, wary of what the Judge offered: hell, it was all too good to be true and it _had_ to be a scam, some trap he was missing. Only … there'd been no scam, no trap. With Hardcase, what you saw was what you got.

And what he'd gotten was more, so much more, than he could ever repay.

Hardcastle had given him a home, become his family. Hardcastle was 'due north' on his compass of life. Without Hardcase, Mark felt bereft and rudderless, and more lonely than he'd ever been when he'd been 'on his own'. He knew, now, what it felt like to matter to someone else, and what it felt like to be trusted and relied upon by the one person who mattered most to him. With gruff humour and blunt straight talk, Hardcastle had chipped away at his cynicism and taught him that it was okay to believe again in ideals that inspired him to be a better man than he was.

Thinking about Milt as he'd last seen him, Mark sighed sorrowfully. He'd never known anyone quite like the Judge and he couldn't bear the thought of maybe losing him. Turning his face to the grimy window, his gaze lifting to the sky, he wondered if there was anything or anyone, any Supreme Being, who heard prayers and who looked out for irascible, cantankerous, and completely, utterly, irreplaceable good men. "I hope so," he murmured fervently. "I hope You're not planning to take him yet. Not for a long time yet."

The bus halted at the gatehouse and then proceeded into a large, concrete yard that was surrounded by high wire-topped walls and bleak buildings. When the door slid open, Mark took a deep breath and, his expression closed, he stood and shuffled down the narrow aisle behind other new or returning inductees to the institutional life.

He was back in San Quentin, smack dab in the middle of his worst nightmare.

_Quit whining, McCormick, and get a grip. There's work to do! _

The voice in his mind sounded so startlingly like Hardcastle that Mark froze and looked around. But then, with a shake of his head, he quickly realized that it had only been his imagination, his inner voice getting his attention by assuming Hardcase's tones and oft-used exhortations. Exhausted by the emotional roller-coaster of the past more than twenty-four hours, he'd been wallowing in memories, feeling sorry for himself, getting caught up in old and, admittedly, current and very real, even legitimate, fears. But, the fact was, he hadn't been forced back to San Quentin: returning to the prison had been his choice. And, yes, certainly, of course he was deeply worried about Milt, but all the worry in the world wasn't going to help his friend or make anything better. And, okay, sure, he was scared; he'd be a fool not to be – this was one scary place. But he couldn't let his fear rule him.

Of his own free will, he'd come back for a good and valid reason.

He had a job to do.

He was going to nail the Collagio brothers, and he was going to do it legally, just like Hardcase would want it done.

Lifting his chin, stiffening his spine, his expression contained but alert, he stepped off the bus and ambled into his place in the ragged line of prisoners facing the guard who had pulled the 'welcome wagon' duty for the day. Glancing up and around at the pasty yellow walls of the buildings that loomed over the yard, he shook his head and let out a soft sigh of resignation. San Quentin stood overlooking the San Francisco Bay, but there were no windows that took advantage of the view. _Now that is a crime,_ he mused sardonically, _and a waste of prime real estate_. But, the plain fact was, nobody thought convicted criminals deserved to have such beauty in their daily existence. His lips tightening, Mark found himself wondering if more of the guys in here had had more beauty in their lives, maybe they would have turned out differently. Maybe they wouldn't be so brutal and callous in the face of a world that had rarely done them any favors.

Shooting an assessing look at the guard, he quirked a brow and was surprised to have to quash a flash of amusement before it reached his face. But he knew Micky O'Halloran and the spiffily-pressed uniform along with the stiffly, squared-back shoulders and grim expression as he stood alone, idly slapping his riot stick into his palm, was a far cry from the generally genial and rumpled demeanor he more usually sported. It was all for effect, all of it and, having been through the drill before, Mark knew that now. A single, smartly-uniformed guard standing practically unarmed in front of a bunch of disheveled and demoralized but still-dangerous prisoners, mutely but effectively made the point of who was in control – of course, the armed guards staring down at them from the towers didn't hurt. When Micky began to speak in gruff, authoritative tones, Mark dropped his gaze to the ground in front of the guard's boots and schooled his expression to blankness – in the big house, eye contact tended to be read as defiance – and laughing at the guards was definitely frowned upon.

"You are now inmates of San Quentin. Some of you have been here before and it's _not_ good to see you back; most of you are here for the first time. You all know why you're here – you committed crimes and have been tried and sentenced to incarceration for a defined period of time to protect others from you. While you're here, you're expected to obey the rules, be respectful, keep yourselves and your cells clean, do your chores by working in the kitchen or laundry or cleaning brigades, and learn a trade to give you an alternative to crime when you get out. _If_ you get out."

Micky paused for effect and, except for the soft, restless scuffle of feet on the pavement, heavy silence filled the yard. "If you break the rules, you will be disciplined to help you see the error of your ways. If you behave, once a year you'll be rewarded with increased privileges. In the next hour, you will be processed into the institution. You will surrender your clothing, shower, and be given a medical examination; you will then be given your uniforms which will have your identification number stamped on them, and escorted to your cells. In one hour, the bell goes for lunch in the cafeteria. After lunch, your cellblock guards will tell you the rules; if you have questions, that's the time to ask them. They'll also give you paper to write home and tell them you've arrived safely. A brochure concerning visitation and allowable gifts will be given to you to include in your letters. If you don't know how to write, arrangements will be made for someone to assist you and you will be scheduled for a remedial class to teach you how to read and write."

Once again he paused in accordance with the script given to every guard for this particular task. "Life in prison isn't designed to be fun so don't expect to have a good time. Whether or not you do hard time is up to you."

_A good time? No, it sure wasn't that,_ Mark thought with a mental snort._ Mind-bendingly boring time, maybe. Shit-assed scared time, for sure. It was ALL hard time and, sometimes, it was just harder time. _Hard-pressed not to roll his eyes, Mark contented himself with a small grimace. Micky dismissed them with directions to enter the heavy, grilled door to the left. When they turned and shuffled in the designated direction, he ambled over to Mark.

"Really didn't expect to see you back, Skid," he observed, sounding disappointed.

Rolling his shoulders, Mark shook his head. "I didn't do the crime, man," he replied with such utmost sincerity that he knew it was laughable. "I was framed."

"That so? Innocent as a newborn lamb?" Chuck challenged.

"Sure am."

"Uh huh," the guard grunted, unimpressed. "So you're still singing the same old song."

"Yeah, well, I know all the words by heart," he muttered. As he stepped over the wide sill and into the garishly bright light of the entry hall, his nose wrinkled and his lip curled. God, the place stank with an indefinable odor all its own. Studying the staff members behind the counter and the guards stationed around the walls, he wondered how any of them could stand to work in the place every damned day – let alone make a career of it, spending upwards of thirty-five years in the joint, far longer than a lot of the inmates, shackled by dreams of a pension. Not for the first time, he reflected that prisoners weren't the only ones who, year after year after very long year, did time in the big house.

00000

His hair still damp from the shower they'd been herded into and out of like animals, the harsh fabric of the heavily-starched new uniform scratchy on his skin, carrying thin sheets and a single folded blanket, Mark surveyed his new domain with a dyspeptic eye. A narrow, metal, bunk bed with thin, unmade mattresses was bolted to the floor and the wall it rested against. Along the back wall, the porcelain chipped and stained, were the toilet and small sink. In the back corner opposite the bunk, was the single chair and small metal desk, also bolted to the wall, with a corkboard above it. There was room in front of the cell bars, between the sidewall and the foot of the bunk, for him to take three paces. Cramped, utilitarian, ugly, and absolutely no privacy. Yep, just like he remembered. Grimacing, he made up the lower bunk.

The bell rang and the steel-barred door of his cell and all the others along the corridor slid open with cold, metallic precision. Most of the neighboring cells were empty, their inhabitants engaged in worthy activity at that hour of the day, just as he would be on the morrow. Stepping out into the walkway, he glanced through the steel mesh that walled the wide catwalk to the gunwalk beyond and a level below, and the five-story high blank gray wall of 'center block' – commonly referred to sarcastically by the inmates as 'The Castle'. Sighing, he turned to walk with the other dozen or so prisoners to the far end. One guard led the way and another trailed behind, out past the secure observation cubicle constructed of bullet-proof glass, through the heavy door, down three flights of bare concrete steps, and then to the mess hall.

He could smell the over-steamed food long before he entered the cavernous hall filled with long rows of tables and chairs tightly packed together. Swallowing the bile that rose to burn the back of his throat, he picked up a scuffed plastic tray and got in line. Two slices of bread, a bowl of indeterminate, greasy stew, an apple, and a mug of coffee was his allotment; nourishing, filling, but definitely uninspiring. Turning to find a seat, he surveyed the noisy hall. Though he'd been away for two and a half years, he recognized at least three-quarters of the six hundred men on that lunch shift, including nearly a dozen that he'd helped Hardcastle put inside: at least two former stunt drivers, a guy that used to be the biggest loan shark on the west coast _and_ his main enforcer, a retired gangster, a murderer who had been a rich and powerful newspaper publisher for a few years, a master thief and three of his protégés – and this was just the first lunch shift. He swallowed hard, knowing none of them had spotted him, yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Which meant he had no time to lose.

Over on the far side of the room, he spotted Cates and Grimsby already digging in like pigs at a trough, but there were no empty seats over there, so he settled for a place beside a young man he knew from before. The guy was in for knocking-off convenience stores – but at least he wasn't as crazy or violent as some.

"Hey, Rick," he drawled as he sat down. "Long time no see."

"Skid! What're you doin' back here?" the freckled-face, skinny redhead exclaimed as he held up a hand to be slapped.

"Violated my probation for hanging around with unsavory company," Mark replied with a negligent shrug. "And I was setup to take the fall for the attempted murder of the retired judge who put me in here the last time."

"Framed, huh?" Rick laughed cynically. "Weren't we all?"

Tearing a slice of bread in half and dipping one end into the grease-glazed stew, Mark snorted softly. "But how many of us can look across the room," he asked, his gaze lifting and hardening as he jutted his jaw toward the far table, "and see the guys that framed us?"

Rick gaped at him and then looked across the hall. "What? Who?"

"Grimsby did the deed and Cates backed him up," Mark growled. "But they got caught on another beef and wound up in here, too."

"Grimsby?" Rick echoed and shook his head. "Dumbass Warden is still trying to figure out how he got out in the first place."

"How did he get out?" Mark asked, curious, wondering if the creep could wangle the same escape again.

"In a coffin, stretched out over the skinny stiff."

Mark nearly choked on the bread he was chewing on, and then barked a laugh. "Kinda ironic, when you think about it," he muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, won't be long before he gets carted out for real," he replied and then, when Rick looked confused, he explained, "The two of them are loose ends for the kingpin who set up both crimes – and, believe me, this guy, Collagio, likes to keep everything tied up neat and simple." Once again nodding toward Grimsby and Cates, he said dourly, "Only a matter of time before they get whacked, either by a paid hit or by someone in here who's lookin' to do Mario Collagio a favour. I give 'em a couple days, max, and they're history." Shrugging, his face going still and flat, his voice deadly cold, he added, "If the judge dies and I'm stuck looking at life, I won't have nothin' to lose – hey, I'll kill them myself. Anyway you look at it, those two guys over there are dead men who just haven't stopped breathing yet."

Rick rubbed his mouth, his gaze speculative, and then he picked up his empty tray and stood. "See ya around, Skid," he said.

"Yeah, see ya."

Mark sipped on his coffee as he watched Rick out of the corner of his eye. The redhead dropped his tray on the conveyor belt and then hustled over to another table. Bending over, he began to talk animatedly to the guys there, all of them turning to look at Cates and Grimsby. Minutes later, the whole pack of them were moving around the mess hall, spreading the word and no doubt elaborating on it to make it even more interesting and exciting. Gossip was the main form of entertainment in a place as stultified as a prison; by the end of the afternoon, the story would be all over the big house and there'd be some who'd salivate at the idea of doing Collagio a favor with the hope of consideration and reward at some point in the future. By the time they returned to their cells before the dinner bell, Cates and Grimsby would have heard it and would have seen the speculative, avaricious glances, and they'd be feeling hollow inside, nervous about having nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

Not hungry, and satisfied that his plan was underway, Mark picked up the tray and sauntered toward the conveyor belt. He kept the apple but consigned the dry bread and greasy stew to oblivion.

00000

He wasn't back in his cell long before the guard, Bobby Jennings, one of those he'd chosen to be a contact, appeared in his doorway. Although most of the cons were out on work details or remedial training assignments at that time of day, there was always someone watching and listening. So, just in case anyone started wondering what this con was doing talking to this guard, Bobby held up the official orientation list of rules and the stationary he'd brought and, in a tone pitched to resonate through the nearly empty cellblock, announced officiously, "Okay, McCormick, it's time to make sure you're clear on the rules around here. And don't give me any lip about having heard it all before. I don't want any whining later about 'nobody told me'. Sit up and pay attention."

Then, purely for the benefit of other guards in the security station or on the gunwalk who could see into the cell, he swaggered in and turned the desk chair around to sit down like he owned the place. Not that his colleagues weren't trustworthy, but guards gossiped just like everyone else in the prison.

Mark swung his legs over the side of his bunk and sat up with a grin. "Hey, Bobby," he acknowledged, keeping his voice low.

"Skid," Jennings said quietly, but he didn't return the smile as he handed over the sheet of rules. "You nuts? Coming back in here as a stooge for the FBI? Anybody finds out and you're dead meat."

"Yeah, yeah," Mark allowed evenly, but impatiently waved off the concern as if he was disputing a rule. "That's the least of my worries. Lotsa guys in here hate me just on principle and would like a little payback for being sent up." Leaning forward, he asked anxiously, "You got any word on how the Judge is doing?"

"No change," Bobby sighed and grimaced at the flash of disappointment in Mark's eyes.

"Oh, well, at least he's no worse," Mark replied, striving to be positive as he turned his face away to stare bleakly out at the metal walkway beyond his cell. "I guess it's too soon, anyway. The doc said he'd be keeping Hardcastle out of it for a couple days, to give his brain a chance to heal. He'll wake up, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day."

"Got some bad news," Jennings told him then, taking the rules back and pointing at one. "Carl was in an accident this morning. He's okay, mostly just shook up, but he won't be pulling his regular shift for a few evenings, and maybe not for a week."

"You're sure he's okay?" Mark probed, concern in his eyes for the likeable evening guard. When Jennings gave him a definitive nod, his gaze dropped and he chewed on his lip. "You're right; that's not good news." Scratching under his jaw, he thought about the implications and options; then shook his head. "No offence, but there's nobody else on the evening roster that I'd be comfortable bringing into this scam. Guess I'll have to wing it."

"I can try to pull some overtime," Bobby offered uncertainly. "But I'm at my quota for the month, so …."

"Yeah, I hear you," Mark said with a sigh. With a shrug, he went on, "You can let McKendrick know that I've turned up the heat on our two pigeons. I'll work on them some more tonight and tomorrow. Maybe they'll see the light and I won't have to be in here long."

"What did you do?" the guard asked, looking suddenly suspicious.

"Nothing! I swear," Mark chuckled, holding his hands up defensively at the reflexive wariness. "Just what I've done since I got here – I've told the truth, that's all."

Bobby gave him a narrow look and didn't appear convinced.

"I promise," Mark insisted, sobering. "I've just told the truth …okay, maybe speculated a bit, but that's all! This has to be legal; has to hold up in court. Hardcase'll kick my ass if I screw this up."

Mollified, Jennings relaxed. "Okay," he allowed. Holding out the writing paper and pen he'd brought in with him as part of his excuse for spending time in McCormick's cell, he asked, "You want to write a letter?"

Mark looked at the stationary but shook his head, sorrow suffusing his face. "Nah, thanks anyway," he murmured. "Only guy I've got to write to isn't in any condition to read right now."

Standing to leave, worried, Jennings said, "You keep your back against the wall tonight, Skid."

"Count on it," Mark assured him with a cocky grin that looked a little frayed on the edges.

"Fine, then, McCormick. You change your mind about writing a letter home, you let me know," Bobby said loudly as he sauntered out of the cell. "Abide by the rules and we'll all get along just fine."

When he was alone again, the grin faded away, leaving haunted shadows in its wake. A few minutes later, his cell door slid shut with a clang and locking clunk. Squinting at the headache that was pounding in his skull, he rubbed his temples and then yawned. God, he was tired. With nothing to do for the next few hours, he lay back down and let his exhaustion draw him down into sleep.

00000

Hundreds of cell doors thundered open, a grind and thunk of gargantuan proportions that echoed through the hollow building, bouncing off the five-story blank wall on the other side of the gunwalk and waking Mark with a jolt that left his heart banging. The clank of thousands of feet rang on the five metal causeways, three below his level and one above, and the raucous shouted greetings, insults, curses and laughter of the prisoners returning to their cells, after being set free from their enforced labour details or mandatory training programs, reverberated in the air. He quickly sat up, feeling vulnerable as he watched men strut or amble lazily past his now open doorway, and he was almost pitifully glad he was located toward one end, with only a few cells past his own. Not ready to be hailed by any who might remember him from before – or worse, _since_ his last sojourn – he grabbed the printed sheet of rules Jennings had dropped off and held it up to mask his face, pretending to read.

Hundreds upon hundreds of toilets flushed with a rush and water splashed into sinks. Unsurprisingly, clogged plumbing resulted in overflows that flooded cells and spilled over the edges of the open-grill of the metal walkways, filthy waterfalls that plunged to the ground floor. He grimaced at the stream that cascaded past the edge of his cell and sighed. Music started thumping, countless boom-boxes turned to full volume to compete with every other noisemaker in the joint, until it was all just a brutal cacophony that battered his eardrums mercilessly. Crossing his arms, he bowed forward and closed his eyes, rocking a little as he tried to slow his breathing and tell himself that he'd endured it all before and he could do so again.

But he ached for the gatehouse, for the pure pleasure of the cleanliness of it, the fresh peace of it … and the precious silence.

To distract himself, he contemplated the men in the cell next to his, imagining them muttering to one another about the rumors, the implicit threat, whether it was real or nothing to worry about. Telling themselves and each other with blustering bravado that Collagio wouldn't have them snuffed, but knowing the cold-blooded bastard would take them out without blinking if he thought it necessary. Mark's expression grew hard, icily dangerous, as he stared at the wall as if willing his gaze to pierce through it, but he swallowed hard, not liking the ruthlessness he felt curling in his gut. He couldn't let his hate boil over. He had to stay calm, cool, _deliberate_. He was on his own; Hardcastle wasn't out there, somewhere, giving him backup. He couldn't afford to make any mistakes.

Before the buzzer blasted, signaling dinner, he was up and leaning his shoulder against the wall just inside his cell, his arms crossed, waiting. As soon as he heard Cates and Grimsby step onto the catwalk, he leaned out and drawled, "Well, well, look who we have here."

At the sound of his voice, they jumped as if stung, and whirled to face him, and he smiled slowly, like a hunting cat about to pounce. Oh, they'd heard the gossip, all right. He took a step onto the walkway, but held close to the cell side, letting others push past from behind.

"You," Cates growled.

"Yeah. Guess you didn't expect to see me so soon … or so close," Mark replied, his gaze narrowing dangerously. "There's nowhere you can hide, you know? The two of you? You're dead meat. Collagio'll get you – or I will."

Grimsby snorted and lifted his chin. "You? You're all hot air," he sneered contemptuously. "All talk and no action. Don't have the guts to kill."

"No?" Mark challenged as he took a step closer, his eyes hard, his voice raspy and full of implacable threat. "Didn't you hear? I took out Weed Randall, an' Hardcastle was still breathing. I promise you, if he dies an' I get stuck in this hell-hole for life … your scrawny ass is mine."

"You? You're the one who got Weed?" Cates returned scoffingly. "I don't believe it."

"Oh, believe it," Mark grunted as he crowded closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "One shot, that's all it took. But you clowns? Hardcase dies and I'll rip you both apart with my bare hands. So you better _pray_ he doesn't die." But then he eased up and laughed harshly. "Not that I'll get the chance, even if the old donkey does kick the bucket. As long as he's alive, he's a threat to Collagio and so are you, so old Mario'll take you bozos out to save his own skin – count on it."

A guard was coming up behind him, so he straightened and flipped them a mocking salute as he moved on past. He didn't much like having them at his back, but he had to convey a degree of controlled strength and ruthlessness, a fearlessness that told them they couldn't touch him, couldn't hurt him. It was all about attitude, about psyching them out, but they were tough, tougher and meaner than he was. His belly twisted over how he'd bragged about his one and only kill, and nausea threatened, but he forced it back. They had to believe that he was as soulless as they were; had to know in their guts that he could kill as easily as breathe.

In the mess hall, he carried his tray of overcooked, dry meatloaf, lumpy mashed potatoes, limp string beans and coffee to a table where he could stare at the two of them while he ate. He could tell they didn't like it, that they felt crowded; he allowed himself a small, bleak smile of satisfaction that was muted by his keen awareness that others were staring daggers at his back. When a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, it was all he could do not to flinch away. But he felt a rush of relief and his smile broadened when he heard the gravelly voice close to his ear chide, "You're playing with fire, kid."

He turned to look at Joe Cadillac, a notorious – if retired – gangster who had surrendered his very detailed records of past criminal acts after Hardcastle had helped save his son's life. "Hey, Joe, good to see you."

The wizened old man gave him a spare smile as he sat down on the next chair. "There're plenty of guys here who don't owe you no favors, McCormick."

"Yeah, I know; believe me, I know," he replied a little weakly, not having expected to see even one honestly friendly face amongst the inmate population.

"So, these guys – Cates and Grimsby – they tried to take out Hardcase?" Joe demanded flatly, turning his sharp, beady black eyes upon them, his lip curling as if he was looking at smelly heaps of refuse.

"Yeah, and set me up for the fall," Mark grated. "Hardcastle … well, he's not doing too good."

"You want I should have them taken care of?" Joe growled menacingly.

"What? No!" Mark blurted, caught off-guard by the matter-of-factly offered hit. "I need them _alive_," he hastened to hiss, looking around to be sure no one was listening too closely. "But, uh, I wouldn't object if you scared the shit out of them."

Joe turned his sharply intelligent gaze upon Mark and studied him, one brow lifting and a slow smile gradually curving his generous lips. And then he snorted and barked a laugh as he slapped Mark's shoulder. "I gotta hand it to you, kid," he chuckled. "You got big ones to try to get 'em your own way … especially in here," he added, with a meaningful glance around.

"I have to take my best shot, you know?" Mark said, leaning close, his voice low and tight. "I can't let them just get away with what they did to Milt but, if they don't spill their guts, the cops've got nothin'."

Joe nodded soberly, his jaw tight. "Okay, here's what I'm gonna do," he said firmly. "Hardcastle saved my boy when he didn't have to lift a hand, and you helped him. So," he rolled his shoulders, "I owe him more'n I paid by coming here to settle my dues to society. A son for a son; 'cause that's what you are to that man. I'll put the word out that you're under my protection. Anybody gives you any grief, they answer to me."

Mark gaped at him, and his throat thickened at the old man's words. The man might have been a major bad guy, but he understood honor and, it seemed, a whole lot more. He had to look away and blink hard, clear his throat and sniff before he could reply huskily, "Uh, not sure Hardcase would see it that way but, uh, thanks." He drew in a shuddering breath and blew it out. "I mean that. Thanks a lot."

Joe's smile was surprisingly gentle as his gaze flickered over Mark's face, and then, as he stood, he ruffled McCormick's curls fondly – a deliberate gesture of paternal affiliation that no one in the large mess hall missed. "You listen to what I'm sayin' to you, kid. That man loves you and he's as proud of you as if you were his own blood. Anything I can do to help you, or him, you just gotta ask."

Mark nodded, his smile in return thin-lipped with emotion. Lifting his head, Joe gestured toward Cates and Grimsby. "Look like they're leavin', so I'll move along; let you take care of business." With a final squeeze of McCormick's shoulder, he turned away.

Mark blew a slow breath and looked around the hall. When he caught the eyes of several of the men who carried very personal grudges against him, he was relieved beyond words to see their gazes falter and fall away; some lifted a hand, as if pushing away temptation and others just shrugged. But the non-verbal messages were clear. He was protected. They'd leave him alone, at least for awhile. Hopefully, he'd be long gone before their initial fear of risking Joe's wrath wore off enough for them to act on their desire for vengeance. But then, he saw Frank Kelly, the former loan shark, giving him the evil eye; his enforcer, Jerry Blackmore, was beside him, crossed arms leaning on the table, and also staring at him with murderous intent. Frank leaned over to whisper something in Jerry's ear and the black man smiled coldly as he nodded.

Turning away, Mark told himself that he couldn't expect _everyone_ in the joint to be in awe of Joe and his henchmen. Kelly had been powerful enough to have his own bully-boys following him around, keen to do his will. Still, having Joe watching his back was more than he'd had fifteen minutes ago, so he was ahead of the game. Deeply grateful for the old gangster's intervention, he stood and followed Grimsby and Cates out, trailing along like an extra shadow as they made their way to the recreation lounge to play some cards. Again, he chose a nearby table and laid out a game of solitaire, lazily making plays while he muttered loud enough for them to hear, "How's it feel, huh? Knowing your time is running out? Are you counting each breath, wondering if it's going to be your last?" He laughed softly, without humor. "No way out, nowhere to run, sitting ducks, that's what you guys are. Only a matter of time."

"Shut up!" Grimsby snapped, wheeling on him and drawing a guard's attention.

Holding up his hands, the very picture of innocence, Mark just smiled … like a shark. "Hey, I'm just tellin' ya," he said gently, "that Collagio won't rest so long as there's anyone who can finger him. You'll go to your graves carrying his secrets – and, unless you're twice as stupid as I think you are, you _know_ he'll make damned sure of that."

Cates grabbed Grimsby's arm and pulled him around, told him to settle down. But they both looked rattled, badly rattled – and they visibly flinched when Joe and his men sauntered in and leaned against one wall to stare balefully at them. Blackmore wandered in, too, and he glanced speculatively at Joe's thugs and then at Cates and Grimsby, before draping his long and lean body on a couch where he had a clear view of McCormick. The sound of Mark nonchalantly shuffling and riffling his deck of cards was loud in the heavy, taut silence. A few minutes later, Grimsby threw his cards in and shoved his chair back; a man used to intimidating and bullying others, he wasn't accustomed to being given the gears and he didn't like it. Cates, more used to the give and take of gang posturing, sighed and followed him out, but he scowled when he saw McCormick rise to follow in his turn.

"You're getting on my nerves, Skid," he rasped over his shoulder.

"Your own fault," Mark taunted bitingly. "You jerks put me in here."

Cates cast him a disgruntled look over his shoulder, and froze briefly, his expression flattening, when he saw Joe's bruisers following along after McCormick. Then he recovered and stomped along behind Grimsby, heading back to the Castle for the night.

Mark chuckled softly as he sauntered along behind them, glancing back once to wave at his bodyguards. "Ah, I do love a parade," he sighed gleefully.

The noise in the cellblock was riotous, so Mark contented himself with simply giving Cates and Grimsby a hard stare for a long moment before he moved on to his own cell. His minders hung around outside until the bell sounded for all inmates to return to their cells for the night. For the next ten minutes, Mark tensely watched the open threshold. If Grimsby cracked too soon, he might decide to just off him, then and there. And who knew where Blackmore was? But the buzzer finally sounded and the cell doors clanged shut. The boom-boxes went silent and the lights in the cells went off, leaving only the diffuse light that shone night and day to let the guards see and know what was going on.

Mark stripped and slipped under the sheet and blanket, lying on his back with his hands under his head. And then, keeping his voice too low to be heard by the guards in their glass-walled security cubicles, he began chanting, "Dead meat. Dead meat. Dead meat."

Others around his cell heard and, for the hell of it, enjoying the opportunity to twist someone's chain just because they could, they joined in until there was a low, threatening thrum in the air. "Dead meat. Dead meat. Dead meat."

He heard Grimsby curse, and smiled with cold satisfaction. Rolling onto his side, he let the low chanting lull him into restless sleep.

00000

The next morning, he stepped smartly into the catwalk when the buzzer sounded for breakfast. Falling in behind the neighbors, he asked with studied innocence, "So, Mort, how does it feel to go out of here, feet first, in a coffin?"

The little guy stiffened, shook his head, and kept walking.

"Kinda ironic, huh?" Mark continued, his tone taking on a goading edge. "Even prophetic. In case you don't know what that means –"

"I know what it means," Grimsby snarled. "Back off."

"Oh, hey, I'm not the one you need to worry about," Mark protested genially as they shuffled along. "Not yet, anyway. So far as I know, Hardcase is still breathing. If he wakes up, he'll back me up with the Feds and I'll be out of here – so I'm in no hurry to do you. But Mario? Now he's not a patient guy, and he's _got_ to be worried about Hardcase waking up – and the cops looking around for someone else to charge."

"Shut up," Cates grunted, his shoulders tense.

"Truth hurts, huh?" Mark persisted with a chuckle. "You know I'm right. The only way out is in a box. There's no place in the lock-up that he can't get to you any time he wants, well, except for Segregation, I guess. But why would the Warden waste the limited space and rarefied air in there on the two of you? Not like you're protected witnesses or anything, right?"

Cates slowed and glanced back at him, a thoughtful look on his face.

Mark arched a brow and nodded approvingly at the light of understanding that finally dawned on the big man's face. "Think about it," he said as he pushed past. Walking backwards for a pace or two, he added, "I wouldn't object to having my name cleared, that's for damned sure." Shrugging, he glanced pointedly at Grimsby. "Not like you've got anything to lose … except your life."

And then he turned away, slipping past a few other guys to quickly head down the stairwell to the mess hall.

00000

For the rest of the morning, having been assigned to the same laundry detail as his hapless quarry, he remained in their peripheral vision but hung back, letting them stew in the damp, steamy, overheated basement work area. Two of Joe's roughnecks were also on the work crew, which made him feel safer than he knew was sensible given nowhere was ever really safe in the big house, especially not when he knew he was probably being stalked every bit as assiduously as he was trailing Cates and Grimsby. At least, for the moment, Blackmore and Kelly were nowhere to be seen and had to be deployed on work crews somewhere else in the institution.

During the lunch of flat fish cakes and fries, Joe again slipped into the seat beside him. When Mark saw the thunderous frown on the old man's face, he rasped, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I hear someone tried to get to Hardcase last night," Joe grated, his eyes narrowed in a squint of anger.

"What? What happened? Is he okay?" Mark gasped, not questioning the information; not in the least doubting that Joe still had a far-flung network of informers.

Shrugging, Joe nodded. "He's still breathing. The cops staking out his room wondered why a cleaner would be washing the floors so late and caught the bastard before he could cut Hardcastle's throat."

"Oh, thank God," he sighed, leaning weakly against the support of his chair.

"There's more news," Joe went on smugly, enjoying his little demonstration of power. "The trucker, Mac something, who was out on bail on the same beef as your boys, ran out of luck. His body was found floating just off the L.A. docks this morning."

His eyes widening, Mark straightened, his gaze going to the two inmates at the next table, and then scanning the others around them, wondering just how soon a hit might be going down. "Man, Collagio isn't letting any grass grow under his feet, is he?"

"Apparently not," Joe agreed. "You want we should try to keep that garbage alive if anybody makes a move on them?" he asked, jutting his jaw toward Cates and Grimsby.

"Well, if it wouldn't be too much trouble," Mark accepted with a huff of nervous laughter. "They're no good to me dead."

"No trouble," Joe told him with nearly disdainful confidence, as if offended that McCormick would think there could be anything too problematical for him to deal with as he chose. Chastened, Mark pursed his lips, dropped his gaze and nodded in the unspoken prison lingo of subservience. Joe was way out of McCormick's league, a super-hitter in the Majors compared to a bat-boy in Minors, and they both knew it … he was just _very_ glad the old man was on his side.

Once Joe had ambled away, Mark looked at the guards stationed around the walls and wondered if they had the first clue about what really went on in the pen. The place was a morass of seething emotion and machinations, of rivalries, threats, intimidation and contests of will. Drugs and cigarettes and even whiskey got smuggled in, apparently with no trouble, and big money changed hands under their noses. Who held the real power, after all? The men with the weapons or the crooks around him, like Joe or Frank Kelly, who had influence and money to burn regardless of whether they wore tailored silk or prison denim?

Cynically, he very much doubted if the guards gave a damn about inmates knocking each other off, except for the paperwork that entailed – though the drugs and the booze worried them because the smuggled goods made dangerous felons _very_ unpredictable. But, worried or not, they couldn't seem to stop it from happening.

00000

After lunch, Mark reported to his remedial occupational training assignment in the carpentry shop, another stifling, noisy, cavernous hell-hole – and, this time, he spotted Blackmore slaving in the heat not far away. He caught the glance of one of his minders who casually wandered into a workspace between him and Kelly's enforcer. Trying to ignore the fear that quivered in his belly, Mark kept his own focus on Grimsby and Cates. They were looking twitchy, and he wondered if they'd heard the news about Mac.

They toiled for four hours before the buzzer sounded, signaling the hour for fresh air and recreation out in the yard. Swiping the sweat from his brow, thinking briefly of clipping hedges and mowing grass in the sunlight and studiously _not_ thinking about the swimming pool, Mark trundled out with the others. God, he'd been inside for only two days, had spent only one day in the mindless routine of make-work activity, and he felt exhausted, drained by the pervasive, persistent tension that permeated the air and the need to always be on-guard against attack. The only respite he had was in his locked cell and, given how much he loathed being locked up, that seemed … pitiful and not a little ironic.

Very conscious that Jerry Blackmore was slithering along with sinuous grace somewhere behind him, stalking him like a panther, he hastened his pace to catch up with Grimsby and Cates. When he came up behind them in the corridor leading to the yard, he asked with a blunt heartiness that made them jump, "Have you heard the news? Mac's dead." When Grimsby stumbled and gave him a wild-eyed look, he grinned and held out his hands. "Only two loose ends left," he elaborated helpfully. He leaned in confidentially as he went on, "Oh, and someone tried to get to Hardcase last night, but the cops stopped him. So … he's still breathing and when he wakes up, which should be anytime now …."

Cates grabbed Grimsby's arm and pulled him away, drawing him out into the yard where he kept the smaller man moving until he'd put some space between them and Mark.

McCormick sauntered out into the sunlight and drew a deep, grateful breath of fresh air. Doing his best to appear casual and carefree, he strolled along the side of the building until he reached the corner where it met the high, outer wall, and then he leaned his back against the brick. Crossing his arms, he let his gaze roam over the milling mass of men. Blackmore was about thirty feet away, watching him. Joe and his guys were clustered nearby. The guards on the ground and up in the two overlooking towers had watchful, wary expressions on their faces, as if they, too, could feel the tension growing.

Arthur Farnell came outside and surprised Mark by angling toward him. Snorting softly, McCormick shook his head. The master thief was as immaculate as ever, his prison fatigues pressed and, oddly, even looked impeccably tailored. As Farnell drew closer and took up a position along the wall next to him, Mark gaped and exclaimed disbelievingly, "Silk? You're wearing silk?"

"Well, I may have to spend seven to ten years here before parole," Art drawled with sophisticated hauteur, "but I don't have to be chafed by those potato sacks the rest of you are wearing."

"I don't believe it," Mark laughed weakly, shaking his head. "Who're you paying off for that privilege?"

Scratching his nose, Art replied wryly, "Not as many as you might think. Amazing what a specialist's report attesting to debilitating skin allergies can accomplish."

"I'll bet," Mark rejoined, amused and thinking he'd now seen and heard just about everything.

"I hear you tried to take out Hardcase," Farnell went on, an edge to his voice. "Have to say, I was surprised."

"I was framed," Mark grunted with a shrug.

"Uh huh," he replied. Nodding at Terence Harlow, a former dealer of luxury cars, he smirked. "I was just saying to old Terry that it had to be something like that. That you had too much _integrity_ to try to kill Hardcastle."

"Yeah? I'm surprised you know the meaning of the word," Mark snorted with a lazy grin.

"I don't," Art drawled, amused rather than insulted. "I've never grasped the concept and fail to see its supposed value. I only know you're apparently a man of _considerable_ integrity because Hardcase went out of his way to tell me so."

The grin faded from Mark's face and he looked away. Moving in closer, Farnell went on with dulcet tones of satisfaction that belied his words, "Too bad about the Judge. I hear he's never going to be the same, even if he does wake up. Head injury like that? Probably end up a vegetable."

Anger flaring in his eyes, Mark straightened and growled, "Hardcastle's got the hardest head and the thickest skull of anyone I know and _he's going to be just fine_." As he turned to stalk away, Art called gloatingly, "You keep telling yourself that and maybe you might start to believe it."

Gritting his teeth, Mark closed his eyes briefly, fighting to rein in his temper and his sick, sick fear that Farnell might be right. Blowing a long breath, he looked around and rolled his eyes to see The Fixer bearing down on him and, given his usual, doleful countenance, looking far too pleased with himself for it to be good news. What? Had he missed the memo instructing everybody else to rattle his cage?

"Hey, Skid," the Fixer chortled. "Wanted to know if you wanted in on the bet."

"What bet?" Mark asked warily, expecting an unpleasant punch-line.

"Word's out, McCormick," the big man told him with a glance around the yard. "You got set-up and you're trying to get Cates and Grimsby to cop a plea to get you off the hook. And Kelly wants you toasted before you get your 'get out of jail free' pass."

"Yeah?" Mark said, not in the least surprised that the Fixer had all the action nailed – the man always knew everything that was going on inside the walls. "So, what's the bet?"

Leering down at him, enjoying the chance to yank McCormick's chain to get a little of his own back after their last encounter, he reported with greasy satisfaction, "The bet is whether Collagio's man will get to those two," he flicked a look toward a guy casually angling closer to Grimsby and Cates, and then shifted his gaze to Blackmore, "before Kelly's enforcer does you. So, you want in?"

But Mark wasn't listening. Alerted by The Fixer's glance toward Collagio's targets, his gaze raked the crowded yard, looking for anyone who could be a threat. His eyes narrowing, he studied the ebb and flow, the body language, of men moving aimlessly from place to place, heads bent together in conversation or alone and fiercely independent – and spotted one guy on his own, trying to look casual but moving closer and closer to Grimsby and Cates. And then he spotted another one, angling in from another direction. There were two of them!

With an urgent glance at Joe, he started to move hastily toward the two truckers. But he was too far away. "Cates! Watch out!" he yelled, and gestured at the dangerous men closing in as he broke into a run.

His yell triggered chaos.

In split seconds, the relatively benign crowd of prisoners began shouting and shoving, taking advantage of the situation to let their ever-seething anger spill out and wreak a little havoc of their own. Mark pushed past several brawling men and was aware that Joe's minions were also moving with purpose. Cates and Grimsby had taken up a back-to-back position as they anxiously watched the heaving mass of men around them, trying to spot the threat. Jostling men got in his way, frustrating him, but the good news was the spontaneous riot was also slowing down the assassins. He shoved his way through and tackled one of the goons stalking the others. The guards shouted for order and warning shots blasted into the sky as he grappled with and then solidly slugged the stranger, knocking him out. Scrambling to his feet, he saw one of Joe's boys was dealing with the other guy, so he hurried to Cates and Grimsby, roughly shoving them toward the guards and the entrance to the building.

"That tears it," Cates rasped. "I'm calling my lawyer."

"About damned time," Mark growled roughly. "Get to Jennings in C-Block! Tell him to call Lou McKendrick, FBI." He shoved them again to hasten them on their way, and waved at some of Joe's gang to go with them for protection while he hung back to keep an eye on the two would-be assassins, to make sure they didn't get up anytime soon and to finger them to the guards. "Move it! There may be others!"

Cates nodded and, grabbing Grimsby's arm, used his bulk to push through the surging mob to safety.

Whirling away, panting, hardly able to grasp that it was over, that he could pull the plug and get the hell out of Dodge, Mark rubbed his mouth. He edged away from the combatants around him, his gaze raking the Yard to make sure the two threats were still down. He heard Joe shout his name in urgent warning, instinctively started to turn to see what was wrong – and, belatedly, remembered with a new rush of fear-fueled adrenaline that he'd forgotten about Blackmore.

He felt a powerful blow to his side and gasped as fire streaked into his chest. He staggered and he felt hands grabbing him, jostling him, dragging him somewhere. The angry shouting around him coalesced into a roaring in his ears and the world tipped drunkenly and weirdly seemed to recede, as if it was drifting into the distance. Blackness rushed up and swept over him, carrying him away.

00000

Turning off the ignition of his sedan, Lou McKendrick sat for a moment staring at the hospital. He didn't have time for this ritual daily visit. Hell, he didn't personally know the eccentric retired judge and it wasn't as if Hardcastle even knew he was there. He could far more easily get updates about the man's condition on the telephone. But … he knew McCormick would be there – probably would be camping out in the lounge to stay handy – if he hadn't been doing Lou's job for him, getting key witnesses to burn the Collagios. He grimaced and sighed, shook his head. Stupid to feel he owed the stubborn kid these visits, as if he were some kind of proxy for McCormick. Ah, well, what the hell. He was there so he might as well get it over with.

As he neared the entrance, he unclipped the pager from his belt, to turn it off; but, just then, it beeped and he scowled at the tiny screen, wondering who was tracking him down and what was so urgent. But when he saw Jennings' name and number, he felt a surge of hope that maybe McCormick had delivered.

Hastening inside to the bank of public telephones in the Reception area, he popped in a quarter, dialed his office and had the call re-routed to save the hassle of digging up enough change for the long distance charges. Impatiently, he glanced at his watch while he waited to be connected.

Finally, the call went through. "Jennings? McKendrick." At first, he smiled at what he was hearing, but then he exclaimed, "What?" His expression grew grim and he again looked at his watch. "Okay, I'll catch a shuttle. Keep 'em under wraps – do you need me to call the Warden?" After a moment, he said, "See you in about two hours."

"Sonofafuckingbitch," he cursed vehemently as he slammed the handset into its cradle. Then he dropped in another quarter, called his secretary, ordered the immediate detention of the Collagio brothers pending charges, and arranged the flight. Once that was done, he stared at the elevator bank and decided he had time. Hell, he'd make time.

Once upstairs, he buzzed at the entrance to ICU and, less than a minute later, a nurse opened the locked door. He flashed his badge and was waved inside.

"How's Hardcastle?" he asked as they walked briskly down the hall.

"He became restless after the altercation in his room last night, and started to fight the respirator, so the doctor ordered its removal and stopped the sedation. He's been breathing fine on his own but he hasn't woken up yet."

He nodded and again flashed his badge at the two LAPD uniformed cops guarding the door into the judge's cubicle.

Inside, he studied Hardcastle, looking for signs of improvement but aside from the fact that he was breathing on his own, Lou couldn't see any. Still, the breathing thing was a pretty big deal. He approached the bed and did as he always did – lightly gripped the older man's wrist, because he was a stand-in for the man who would do the same. Shaking his head impatiently at his foolishness, he was about to turn and go – when Hardcastle sniffed and muttered, "Mmm-cccor-mm-k?"

Startled, Lou gaped at him, not sure what to say. Calling to the cops at the door to get a nurse, he tightened his grip on Hardcastle's wrist. "Judge?" he asked tentatively.

Hardcastle coughed and grimaced with pain. Sniffing, he licked at dry lips and tried to blink his eyes open, but the task seemed to defeat him. Another grimace, this time one that looked like frustration. "Mm-rr-k?" he rasped breathily.

Understanding too well, Lou swallowed heavily. "Mark's …." But he was saved from having to say anything when a nurse bustled into the room and, easing him out of the way, took over.

"Mr. Hardcastle? Can you hear me?" she called as she glanced at the machines.

"Mmm … yeah," he grunted with a scowl of concentration.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Hos-pit'l," he slurred with evident effort, and then, "T-t-tir-d."

"Yes, I'm sure you are," she soothed. "It's alright. Go back to sleep."

"Mmm," he muttered and seemed to settle.

Lou had watched from the end of the bed. "What do you think?" he asked with guarded hope. "Is he going to be alright?"

She gave a small shrug. "Too soon to tell; but he knows who he is and where he is – and those are good signs."

"He was asking for Mark McCormick," Lou told her.

"Ah, yes, Mr. McCormick, his next of kin. After I've called the doctor to tell him Mr. Hardcastle was conscious, if only briefly, I'll have to phone –"

But Lou cut in, "Mark's not at home. If Hardcastle asks for him again, tell him … tell him McCormick's been taking care of business."

She quirked a curious brow, sensing there was more than the big, solemn FBI agent wasn't saying, but she let it go.

He studied Hardcastle for a long moment and then, with a sigh, he turned and left the room. He had to get to the airport.

00000

Lou had called Jennings when his flight landed, so he wasn't surprised to find Warden Howard waiting for him in Reception when he arrived. The heavy-set man looked harried and defensive, like a petulant Saint Bernard.

"Cates and Grimsby are safe in Segregation," Howard told him officiously.

Nodding briskly, having no patience with the disgruntled bureaucrat's posturing, he demanded sharply, "What the hell happened this afternoon?"

"We're still piecing the sequence of events together," the man retorted, flushing with umbrage. "From what the guards could see at the time, it appeared as if McCormick started a riot and was brawling with other prisoners, assaulting some and repeatedly shoving others. The guards in the towers fired warning shots …."

"And when the riot continued, some trigger-happy guard decided to shoot someone to see if that got a reaction," Lou snapped angrily.

"It was McCormick's decision, and yours, not to inform all the staff about why he was here," Howard grated frigidly. "So far as virtually everyone knew, he was a dangerous felon, charged with attempted homicide, violent, and facing his third conviction – which would have given him at least twenty years, more if Judge Hardcastle doesn't survive."

Rolling his eyes, Lou dragged in a deep breath and held up his hands. Sniping at one another wouldn't change what had happened. "Okay, we'll sort it out later. Right now, I want to see him and I want to know who got Cates and Grimsby to safety while McCormick was bleeding-out in the yard."

"An inmate named Joseph Cadillac and some men who misguidedly follow his lead –"

"Not so mistakenly in this case," Lou rasped. "So, old Joe was in on the scam, huh?" He gave a bleak smile and added under his breath, "Good for him."

"Why McCormick would trust an infamous gangster –"

"Seems he made the right decision," Lou interrupted again, flatly, as he started moving forward like a battleship under full steam, cutting through the defensiveness and resentment. "I want to see him, _now_. And then I want to see Joe Cadillac."

The Warden gave him a sour look but nodded. With a gesture to one the guards, he waved McKendrick toward the heavy door that led inside the lock-up.

A few minutes later, Lou sailed into the infirmary with Howard plowing along in his wake. "Jesus," he muttered at the crowd of inmates, medics and guards who filled the place. "What the hell …?"

"I told you, it was a riot," Howard replied repressively. "Riots result in injuries."

Blowing a breath, McKendrick nodded impatiently and shouldered through to the small ward of eight beds in the back. All of them were occupied, some with men with fresh casts on their hands or arms, some with bandages wrapped around their heads, all of them sporting split lips and black eyes. He spotted McCormick on the last bed in the corner, and he was grateful for that – at least the kid hadn't been left in a completely vulnerable location. An old inmate looking like a pit bull with an attitude, sporting a thick bandage around his upper right bicep, was standing between McCormick and the rest of the room. Distracted by the Mark's pallor and the intravenous of blood hooked up to his arm, it took Lou a second to realize he was looking at the infamous Joe Cadillac. Two armed guards, who looked caught between being embarrassed and sullen, stood rigidly at attention at the foot of the kid's bed.

"Warden Howard, can I help you?" a worn-looking youngish man in a lab coat asked.

"Yes, you can fill Special Agent McKendrick in on Mr. McCormick's condition," Howard replied coldly.

"Agent McKendrick, I'm Dr. Parsons," the physician said with genial, if weary, helpfulness. "Mr. McCormick lost a fair bit of blood before he was brought in for treatment, but his wound isn't particularly serious. The bullet cut a deep groove in his side, laid bare a rib, but I've stitched him up and he'll be fine. I'm surprised he's still unconscious, but … well, with the blood loss and he looked, I don't know, worn down, exhausted, when they brought him in. But … as I say, with rest, he'll be fine."

Lou gave the doctor a wintry smile. "That's good news, Doc," he said, meaning it. Things could have been a helluva lot worse. "When can I get him out of here?"

Turning to gaze at Mark, Parsons replied, "Once that second unit of blood is finished, he can leave – I'll issue antibiotics and pain medication for him to take with him. But he should avoid any strenuous activity for two weeks to a month, depending on how fast his wound heals, and see his own doctor to get the stitches out in ten days."

"Okay, well, I need to interrogate a few people, but I'll take him with me when I go," Lou told him. "Probably in about three hours. Can someone get his clothing and personal effects?"

"Of course."

Boldly eavesdropping, Joe snapped, "You should get him outta here and someplace more secure." Gesturing at the unconscious black guy in the next bed, he went on with no little heat, "That bastard was about to skewer him when that idiot," he jerked a thumb at one of the guards, "shot him. Probably saved his life, but that was just plain dumb luck."

Caught between amusement at the old gangster's indignation and alarm that a possible assailant had been placed in such close proximity to McCormick, McKendrick looked askance at the Warden. "Did you know this guy was about to kill McCormick?"

Looking away, Howard replied stiffly, "As I told you, we're still sorting out what all happened."

"Right," Lou sighed and shook his head. Stepping forward, he held out his hand to Joe, who gave him a sharp, appraising look and then shook. "Mr. Cadillac, maybe you can fill me in on what happened."

Pursing his lips, Joe nodded with the air of a man who had been trying to tell someone what happened for hours but hadn't garnered any attention. "You know why McCormick was in here, right?" he asked cagily.

"I do; I set it up with him and I understand the witnesses have agreed to cooperate," Lou replied, equally cagey as he glanced at the others around them. No need for Collagio to find out what was happening, assuming he didn't already know.

"Right, then," Joe said. "The short story is McCormick spotted two guys moving in on the men he was watching. He called out a warning and all hell broke loose … like maybe it was planned, I don't know. Coulda just been an excuse to brawl." He shrugged expressively, and carried on, "McCormick tackled one of the guys and punched him out. Two of my men stopped the other one." Lou waved at men in two beds farther away. "That's them, the guys who tried to make the hit, over there. Anyway, Mark got to his pidgins and got them to hustle on out of the Yard, and he called to some o' my guys to give 'em protection till they got to Jennings, a guard in the Castle. Took awhile to convince anyone to call 'im at home, 'cause his shift was long over."

"I'm grateful that your, er, friends persevered," Lou said soberly, studiously ignoring the Warden's huff of irritation at the implied criticism.

"Meanwhile," Joe continued, jutting his jaw toward the Afro-American on the bed, "this guy works for Frank Kelly – the guy who ran most of the loan shark business on the coast. Name's Blackmore. Jerry Blackmore. Kelly wanted McCormick taken out, 'cause the kid helped put him away. I saw Blackmore moving in on the kid in the confusion and yelled a warning. Mark started to turn and that's when he was shot. I grabbed him and got him down, stood watch over him, an' one o' my boys took care o' Blackmore." Jerking his thumb at the other guard at the foot of the bed, he said, "He's got the shiv we took off Blackmore."

Lou had crossed his arms while he listened. When Joe finished, he cast the Warden a sideways glance as he commended, "Admirable and succinct report, thank you." Turning to the Warden, he said firmly, brooking no argument, "I need those two over there also put in Segregation; separate, obviously, from the other two but they're all protected witnesses now in a federal case – I'll sort out the jurisdictional issues on attempted murder charges with the state officials later. While they're in here, I strongly urge you to put guards on both of them. Nobody – and I mean _nobody_ but me and the doctor and whoever he personally designates – should get anywhere near them – odds are good that someone will try to silence them, one way or another. I'll take Joe's detailed statement later, in terms of how these events pertain to my case, but in the meantime, I'd also suggest you charge Blackmore with assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder, with Kelly named as an accessory in conspiracy to commit murder, and I presume you'll treat the shiv as evidence now."

The Warden regarded him stonily, furious at being lectured to by the FBI about his responsibilities in his own facility but, as McKendrick had been careful to phrase his demands with at least a semblance of inter-jurisdictional courtesy, there was little he could say other than, "I assure you, these aren't the first assaults and attempted homicides we've dealt with in San Quentin. We know how to handle both the legalities and the security issues."

Vastly unimpressed with what he'd seen so far of the official grasp of the entire situation, Lou quirked and brow and was very tempted to say so but was distracted by a small moan from the bed behind Joe. With a curt nod to Howard, he moved around the gangster to lightly grip McCormick's shoulder. "Hey, kid?" he called gently, leaning down. "You waking up?"

Mark winced and squinted open one eye. "You get the truck that hit me?" he rasped. Lifting an arm to rub his forehead, he jerked and gasped at the pain radiating from his side. "What the hell happened?"

"Long story, but you're okay," Lou told him. "I'll fill you in later when you're feeling a little better. Gonna get you out of this pop-stand in a few hours, soon as I finish interviewing our friends. In the meantime, you rest."

"I can do that," Mark agreed, with a wide yawn. Looking around, evidently confused, he asked, "Hospital?"

"Prison infirmary. You don't need a real hospital," Lou told him. "Might want to thank Joe, here, though. Think maybe he saved your bacon."

Mark gave him a quizzical look but nodded. "I don' remember much right now, but I'm sure he did." Mulling over what Lou had just said, a light dawned, memories cascaded and his gaze focused. "They agreed to talk!" he announced triumphantly.

"That they did. And I've got some more good news for you," McKendrick said quietly, keeping his voice down. "Hardcastle woke up for a couple minutes a while ago. He's breathing on his own and seems to know who he is. Don't have any more intell for you, but …."

"Good news? No, no, that's _great_ news!" Mark enthused and, though his voice remained reedy and his eyelids were heavy, his eyes brightened and his smile was wide with delight. "_Really_ great!" he insisted and struggled to rise, only to grimace with a bitten-off moan as he curled against the painful pull in his side.

"Easy, kid, easy," Lou insisted as he lightly held Mark down. "You'll be on your way back to L.A. soon enough." He paused and then said hoarsely, "You did good, McCormick. Damned good." As Mark gradually eased back, panting softly through gritted teeth, McKendrick patted him on the shoulder. "Sleep while you can. I'll wake you when it's time to go."

"'kay," Mark mumbled and, after struggling to stifle another yawn, he closed his eyes. Truly relaxing for the first time in days, he sighed and, despite the pain, smiled as he slipped into sleep.

Turning away, he clapped a hand on Joe's shoulder and said meaningfully to the Warden, "I'm assuming Mr. Cadillac will be here when I get back. I'll want to take his statement then." Nodding toward Blackmore, he went on, "And, frankly, I want this guy as far away from McCormick as is possible. What happened may have been an unfortunate accident – but anything else untoward happens to my man and it's criminal negligence."

Resigned that McKendrick had a point, Howard nodded his agreement.

Pleased, quite evidently the hero of the hour, Joe smirked smugly.

00000

Hardcastle gritted his teeth against the pain that inflamed his chest with every breath and the duller, but more constant deep ache in his left arm, shoulder and leg. One side of his body felt as if he'd been burned, but he couldn't remember any fire. Couldn't remember much of anything; everything was foggy and his head pounded so badly he felt nauseous. Accident? Must've been in an accident. But his brow furrowed in a scowl of frustration. No. Something else. They'd been on a case. McCormick. Where was McCormick?

Anxiety flared. Something … something bad. The kid was on his own. What? Where? Grunting in frustration, he fought the fog and struggled to focus his bleary, fractured memories. Collagio. Onto them. He panted with effort and the beginnings of fear. Mark … Mark was counting on him. What? What had happened? Where was McCormick?

His eyes blinked open and he winced against the light, unable to suppress a groan. "McCor-mick?" he rasped. So weak. "McCormick!" he tried again, louder.

"Mr. Hardcastle?" a woman's voice answered him and he peered toward the sound. Nurse. She was a nurse.

"Wh-where's …" he stammered haltingly, the breath tight in his chest.

"Mr. McCormick is taking care of business," she reported faithfully.

"Business?" he slurred and scowled, impatient with his confusion.

"Do you remember what happened, Mr. Hardcastle?" she asked.

"N-no," he gasped and, swallowing against his parched throat, his licked his very dry lips. "Wh-what …?" He felt pressure build on his right arm and then gradually release with a slight hiss. Fingers found his wrist. Business? What business? He weakly shook his head and grimaced at the sudden dizziness he felt. Damn it. He didn't have time for this. "Wh-what …?" he tried again.

"Dr. Wilkins will be here shortly, and he can explain," she soothed as she rubbed something over his lips. Licking … glycerin. And then she slipped ice chips into his mouth and he sighed with relief at the sharp, moist cold. "And Special Agent McKendrick may return later this evening."

Special Agent …? "Who?" he mumbled.

"From the FBI, Mr. Hardcastle," she supplied. "He's been here to see you every day."

Milton blinked as he tried to assimilate that. Every day? "How long?" he whispered.

"You were brought in three days ago," she told him. "You need to rest, Mr. Hardcastle. Rest until the doctor comes."

_Three days?_ _FBI? Where was Frank? What was going on? Where the hell was McCormick?_

"W-wait," he husked, struggling to hold onto consciousness, to think. "Has M-Mark been here?"

"I think he was here the night you were admitted," she told him. "There's a note on the file …." But she stopped and busied herself with giving him more ice chips.

"Note?" he persisted anxiously, trying to get things to add up.

Her hand rested on his shoulder, her touch comforting. "You had given him authority in your living will. His instructions were to keep you alive, period, whatever it took."

"Hmmph," he grunted to hide the lump that had assaulted his throat.

"Shh, you need to rest," she repeated, and he heard her footsteps moving away.

The pain in his body and the sharp hammering in his head made it hard to think. He felt so tired … and weak as a newborn kitten. Frowning heavily, he tried to make sense of what she'd said. Three days – he had to be in bad shape to be missing three days. Wasn't like McCormick to not be hovering unless … unless, yeah, she said 'business'. Taking care of business. FBI business?

The kid hadn't been around for _three days_?

Worried now, badly worried, making it even harder to concentrate, to think. Something … something had to be wrong. _Where was he? Was he okay? Collagio. Collagio was dangerous. Had something gone wrong? _

He coughed and groaned at the wrenching pull on his chest; the fog rolled in and he fell into a restless, semi-conscious state of diffuse, muddled anxiety. "Mmcor-mik?" he muttered, unaware. "Mmrk?"

00000

Well after midnight, McKendrick shut off his tape recorder and thanked Joe Cadillac for his statement – and for backing McCormick up when the going got tough. "I'll see that he knows everything that happened out there yesterday afternoon."

"S'okay," Joe shrugged. "Just payin' my debt. Me'n Hardcastle, we're even now." Looking out the office window, across the ward to where McCormick was being helped into his jacket, he said, "He's a good kid."

"Yeah," Lou agreed as he packed his notebook into his briefcase and closed it. "He is."

While he crossed the floor, he studied McCormick and frowned. Perched on the side of his bed, Mark was hunched over, protecting his wounded side, and he looked pale and drawn. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to catch the last flight back to L.A. before morning. But, glancing at the clock on the wall, Lou knew he had to get back. He'd phoned in enough of the facts an hour before to enable his team to proceed with formal charges, but he had to get his report in to ensure they weren't granted bail – he had no doubt that, at this stage, they were serious flight risks.

Chewing on his lip, he stopped in front of McCormick. "You look like you could use about twenty-four hours of sleep in a hotel before you go anywhere."

Peering up through the curls that tumbled over his brow, Mark smiled wanly. "Trust me," he joked, "when I'm this tired, I can sleep _anywhere_, including in the car on the way to the airport and on the plane." His smile faltered and he sighed. "I don't need a fancy hotel. I just really want to get out of here … and I want to get back to L.A."

"Okay, kid," Lou acceded. "Whatever works for you." He helped Mark ease off the bed and onto his feet, and kept a steadying arm around him as they did a slow shuffle out of the infirmary under armed escort.

As they made their way along the empty corridor that rang hollowly with their footsteps, Mark asked, "The Collagios?"

"Been charged with conspiracy to commit murder – three counts; accessories to attempted murder – three counts; and illegal transportation of kidnapped aliens for the purposes of prostitute. And I'm sure I'll come up with more before we're done. They're in the county lock-up and they aren't going anywhere."

"Hardcastle?"

"I called an hour ago and he'd been awake again for a few minutes," Lou told him. "He's confused about what happened and was asking for you."

A faint smile played over Mark's lips. "Man, he's not going to be happy with me." Glancing at Lou, he offered tentatively, "I don't suppose we could …."

"Don't even think about it," Lou replied repressively. "You're a star witness in my case. He's going to find out _all_ about it."

Quirking his brows, Mark sighed in resignation. "And the Coyote?"

"In one piece and back at Gulls Way. I'll give you the keys in the car."

"Thanks, Lou."

"You're welcome, Mark." McKendrick chuckled and shook his head.

When they were held up at Reception by the night clerk who stopped them, requesting McCormick sign a paper the Warden had left, Lou scowled and appropriated the document. Scanning it, his lip twisted with anger.

"What is it?" Mark asked wearily, aching to sit down. The walk through the empty corridors had seemed interminable.

"A waiver absolving the Administration and Correctional Staff of any responsibility for your injury," Lou snapped, disgusted.

"Okay, I'll sign it," Mark sighed. "Got a pen?"

"Mark, this isn't necessary," McKendrick protested. "I'm not entirely sure it's even ethical."

Leaning against the counter, he waved off the objection. "The guy who shot me didn't know what was going down. The poor schmuck was just trying to do his job."

"Maybe so, but this is downright insulting," Lou growled, folding the document and pocketing it. "We'll discuss this when you have more energy."

"Look, I'm okay, alright? I don't want to make a big deal of this. I just … I just want to get out of here."

Once again looping his arm around McCormick's shoulders, Lou said firmly, "I said we'll discuss this when you aren't hurting so much or half-dead on your feet." Turning to the flustered clerk, he told her, "You can have the Warden call me in the morning."

When they finally got to the car Lou had ordered to be on standby for them, Mark slumped against the seat and closed his eyes, asleep before they'd driven through the gate. Lou carefully placed the Coyote's keys in his jacket pocket.

00000

McKendrick had arranged for one of his agents to pick them up right on the tarmac, to save McCormick the ordeal of getting through the terminal. "Drop me at the office," he directed. "And then take Mr. McCormick home to Gulls Way, off PCH, out in Malibu."

Mark shot him a sideways look but didn't comment, just rolled his head to look out the side window. But when Lou got out and closed the door, he said to the driver, "Take me to Mercy Hospital."

Concerned, the agent turned to look back at him. "You need medical assistance, sir?" he asked.

"No … no; I just need to see someone there."

The agent nodded and wheeled away from the curb. A half hour later, he had to wake Mark and help him get stiffly out of the vehicle. "Maybe I should get a wheelchair for you … or, better still, maybe I should just take you home."

"I'm okay," Mark told him. "Really, I'm fine, just sore and tired, that's all."

The young agent sighed, as if he knew his superior wouldn't be happy about the change in plans, and said, "Alright, fine. But I'll help you get wherever you're going, wait for you, and then take you home."

Grinning at the man's intense sincerity and evident anxiety about just dumping him there, Mark patted him on the shoulder consolingly. "Honestly, I'm a big boy now and I don't need a babysitter. If Special Agent McKendrick has any concerns about the fact you left me here, tell him …," he paused and then remembered Lou's preemptory message to the Warden, "tell him to call me in the morning. He'll know where to find me. And thanks for the lift. Appreciate it."

And then he turned away and, slightly hunched, his arm across his body and his hand pressed to his side, moving slowly, he doggedly made his way into the hospital.

00000

Mark pressed the button by the door and then leaned against the wall, waiting for someone to let him in. When a nurse appeared, he straightened as much as he could and, with a small, diffident smile, he said, "I'm Mark McCormick. I heard Judge Hardcastle has been asking for me."

"Yes, he has," she replied, a frown puckering her brow as she took in his haggard pallor and awkward posture. "Are you … are you alright?"

"Been better," he admitted with a fragile grin. "It's been a rough couple of days. Can I see him?"

"He's sleeping right now but, yes, come in." Solicitously, she lightly gripped his arm to steady him and lend him some support as he moved along the corridor. Glad to see McKendrick hadn't yet cancelled the watch on Hardcastle – the Collagios might still try to finish him off – he introduced himself to the cops standing sentry in the doorway and then, inside the cubicle, she eased him down into the chair beside the raised bed.

"How's he been doing?" Mark whispered nervously, his gaze fixed on Hardcastle's face. People kept telling him the Judge was doing better – but he still looked worse than awful.

"He's been restless, in and out most of the evening, and he's seemed anxious," she replied softly. "But Dr. Wilson has examined him and is very pleased with his progress."

Nodding, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile, Mark murmured, "He's probably been wondering where the hell I've been. Now that I'm present and accounted for, he'll settle down."

She poured a glass of water for him from the carafe on the bedside table. "Dr. Wilkins said that when you arrived, you could stay at least until Mr. Hardcastle wakes up and knows you're here. But, frankly, Mr. McCormick, you look like you should be in a bed of your own."

"Just got out of one," Mark replied with a soft chuckle, more than a little ruefully amused that he must look pretty bad to inspire such concern. But, before he left, Dr. Parsons had given him something for the pain, as well as the antibiotics, and he really didn't feel all that bad. Just tired. Very, very tired. "I can doze here, in the chair – or, later, on the couch in the waiting room. Believe me; I've slept in worse places." Looking back at Hardcase, he said fondly, "Really … I just needed to get back here. I'm fine."

When she left him, he said very quietly, "Well, Hardcase, I hear you've been doing your job, getting better an' all. And that's good. That's real good. And, me? Well, I did mine. We got 'em, Judge. We got the Collagios. _And_ we got 'em legal." He paused and grinned weakly. "Of course, you're probably gonna kill me when you hear all about it. Guess it's a good thing that I can still run faster'n you, huh?"

Leaning his head back against the support of the chair, he gazed at the Judge until his eyes grew too heavy to keep open a moment longer.

00000

Soft, sonorous snores drew him back toward consciousness. Not quite awake, he frowned, puzzled. There was something familiar … and then, recognition spurring consciousness, he muttered, "McCormick," and opened his eyes, only to feel brief confusion. What? Where? Oh, yeah, he was in a hospital. Had been for days and – the snuffling inhalation again captured his attention and he slowly turned his head. The lights in his cubicle were off, but enough illumination spilled in from the hallway to allow him to clearly make out McCormick, sprawled in the high-backed armchair by his bed, deeply asleep.

Profound relief suffused his mind and body. The kid was here and he was okay. Milt's restless, persistent worry that something bad had happened, that he'd let Mark down, was immediately soothed. Anxiety seeped out of his muscles and his body relaxed for the first time since he'd regained some awareness the afternoon before. And deep down, his fear of being alone, profoundly alone with nobody in his life who really cared about him, a haunting, aching loneliness, was shouldered out of the way by the reality of Mark's presence in the middle of the night, of Mark sleeping there by him rather than in the comfort of his own bed. He loved the kid, with a fierceness that still astonished him, and it meant the world to him to know the Mark loved him, too. If McCormick hadn't been there for days, well, then, he must've had a damned good reason.

_What've you been up to, McCormick?_ he wondered then, gnawing unconsciously on his lower lip. _Where've you been all this time?_ Squinting in the dull light, he made out lines of strain around McCormick's eyes and mouth, and he thought Mark looked a bit pale under the light stubble of beard, but he couldn't be sure. _And what does the FBI have to do with it all?_

Curiosity warred with heavy drowsiness. His head still throbbed, but distantly, and his body still felt like he'd been through a meat-grinder, making it hard to concentrate on anything for long. Deciding the story could wait until morning, he contented himself with simply gazing at the kid, a fond smile quirking the corner of his mouth and warming his eyes. Moments later, all his restless, persistent fears for Mark's wellbeing assuaged, he slid into deep, healing sleep.

00000

Bright sunlight was streaming through the gauzy curtains on the window by the time Mark woke the next morning. Shifting unguardedly in the chair, he was jolted into full awareness by the searing burn of his wound. Gasping in surprise and discomfort, he froze – and ruefully guessed the magic pill the doc had given him the night before had worn off. Cautiously, slowly, he pushed himself stiffly to his feet and carefully rummaged in his pocket to pull out the small packets of pills. Tossing one of each back, he washed them down with the tepid water still standing in the cup the nurse had poured for him hours before. Closing his eyes, his arm pressed across his body, he focused on getting his breathing under control.

When the worst wave of sharp pain receded, he sighed and turned to look at Hardcastle. Something was different. Oh, the Judge still looked battered, the bruises on his face and the left side of his body bluish-black, but he looked less obviously uncomfortable? More relaxed, maybe? His colour, except for the bruising, was a lot better, Mark decided. And he seemed to be breathing easier, deeper. The tightness of the skin around his mouth and eyes had smoothed out and he seemed, well, he seemed to be sleeping, instead of looking like he had one foot already in the grave. Frowning thoughtfully, Mark decided that Milt definitely looked like he was getting better – but he was afraid that might only be wishful thinking.

At the sound of footsteps, he looked toward the door and was glad to see Dr. Wilkins approaching the bed. Good. Maybe now he'd get some definitive answers about how Hardcase was doing.

"Ah, Mr. McCormick," the doctor greeted him warmly. "How's Mr. Hardcastle this morning?"

"Well, I was kinda hoping you could tell me," Mark rejoined. "I think he's looking better, but what do I know?"

"Let's take a look," the neurosurgeon said, and Mark stepped back to give him room, half wondering if he should go back to the visitors' lounge. But when the doctor didn't say anything, he wasn't about to leave voluntarily when so he badly wanted to hear what Wilkins had to say, so he hovered at the end of the bed.

Moving to the side of the bed, the specialist gently shook Hardcastle's shoulder, to see how readily he roused. The Judge immediately jerked awake and blinked, "Huh? What?" he muttered, and yawned.

"I'm Dr. Wilkins, your neurosurgeon," the physician introduced himself, "and I need to ask you a few questions and do a few small tests."

"Sure, fine," Milt agreed a little blearily. Lifting his hand, he rubbed at his eyes. "What do you want to know?"

"Your name," he replied and, listening, he began testing Hardcastle's reflexes in his right elbow and the soles of both feet.

"Milton C. Hardcastle."

"The year you were born?" Wilkins went on as he drew a penlight from his pocket.

"1921."

Nodding, the physician flicked on the light and said, "I want to check your pupils." Milton sighed but nodded. Wilkins held open one eyelid and then the other, briefly flashing the light into each one. "Good, very good," he murmured. Putting the light away, he asked, "Where do you live?"

"Gulls Way, Pacific Coast Highway, Malibu," the Judge sighed again, and then hurried on, "And to save you a bit of time, it's now 1985, I'm a retired Superior Court Judge, the President is Ronald Reagan and his wife's name is Nancy." Glancing at Mark, he added for good measure, "And that guy standing there looking the worse for wear is Mark McCormick, and he has some serious explaining to do about what he's been up to for the past few days."

Chuckling, Wilkins patted his shoulder. "I can see you're feeling a lot better today," he observed. And Mark echoed, sotto voce, "Oh, he's feisty, all right," earning a mock glare from the Judge. But then the doctor intervened with his next question, "Do you remember what happened to you?"

His gaze drifting around the room, his lips tightening, Milton gave a slight shake of his head. "No, I'm drawing a blank. The last thing I remember is that McCormick and I were investigating a guy up to his neck in trafficking and smuggling illegal goods." Directing a piercing look at Mark, he said forcefully, "And you're going to fill me in on where we are with that as soon the doctor here is done."

"Absolutely, Judge," Mark assured him, his mouth twitching with a grin he couldn't suppress as he held up his hands in surrender. "Good to see you back, Hardcase," he added teasingly, but there was a tremor of very nearly overwhelming relief in his voice to see the Judge awake and alert and sounding like himself.

"Now you're cookin'," Milt returned with a grin of his own.

Cutting into the banter, the neurosurgeon said, "It's not unusual to lose some short-term memory after a head injury. It might come back; it might not. Don't worry about it. You seem to be coming along just fine." He paused and studied his patient thoughtfully. "We'll keep a close watch over the next few days, make sure there aren't any delayed complications, and I'll want you to check in with Charlie Friedman once a month for the next six months."

"Why?" McCormick asked sharply, stiffening as anxiety once again tightened in his chest. "What sort of complications?"

Turning to him, Wilkins explained, "Occasionally, after severe blows to the head, there is some residual bleeding inside the skull that can build up over time and cause problems. While there's no reason to assume that will happen as a given, as it's only a remote possibility, it's best to remain cautious just in case."

"Oh, okay," Mark replied uncertainly, wondering if that meant he could stop worrying or not.

As if reading the concern on his face, Wilkins went on with a reassuring tone, "But I doubt there will be any problems. Seems you were right about Mr. Hardcastle's hard head. I don't see any evidence of permanent damage, though he may suffer some minor dizzy spells for the next few months." Looking back at his patient, he said, "You've bounced back remarkably well. I'll call Charlie and let him know you're doing fine."

Finally allowing himself to believe that Hardcase really was okay, Mark sagged with helpless relief. Unexpected tears burned in his eyes and he swiftly turned his face away, lifting a hand to briefly cover treacherously trembling lips. Sniffing, struggling to get a grip, he swallowed hard and, looking up at Wilkins, said with husky sincerity, his voice cracking with emotion that he couldn't quite suppress, "That's _really_ great news. Thanks."

"So, when can I go home?" Milton asked brusquely, flicking a wary look at Mark as if afraid the kid was about to hug him or do something equally embarrassing.

"I'll have to consult with my colleagues about your other injuries but I'd expect that chest tube will come out in a few days and that's the main reason for keeping you for now," the specialist told him. "Within a week, maybe sooner."

"Oh, hey, feel free to keep him as long as you want," Mark interjected feelingly. "Once he's outta here, he'd gonna have me waiting on him hand and foot and I'll never get any rest."

Wilkins chuckled again, but his sharp gaze assessed McCormick's pallor and the way he held his body, as if he were in pain. "I'll bear that in mind," he replied genially, but meaningfully.

Hardcastle snorted but his blue eyes were twinkling with suppressed laughter at Mark's typical teasing, and he relaxed, apparently reassured that things were getting back to normal. But when the doctor left, his gaze grew harder and he demanded, pointedly, "So what don't I remember? What happened, exactly?"

Sobering, Mark replied bluntly, "The Collagio boys spotted you staking out their building and Mario sent Mort Grimsby after you. He used a King Transport semi to shove your truck off a mountain curve. You either bailed or got thrown out – I'm betting you jumped – before the crash. You broke your arm, your collarbone, cracked your left femur, your thick skull, and a bunch of ribs, punctured a lung and scraped half the skin off your body. You're a mess, Hardcase, but everything will heal."

Wincing reflexively, Milt harrumphed and muttered, "Well, that explains why I feel like ten miles of bad road."

"Uh huh," Mark grunted. "I'm serious, Judge – don't be trying to prove what a he-man, John Wayne-type tough guy you are by pushing to get out of here too soon."

Grudgingly, his mouth twisting with resignation, Hardcastle nodded. Then, scowling, he gave Mark a narrow-eyed look. "And what have you been up to for the past three days while I've been stuck in here, that kept you so busy you couldn't visit – and don't try to snow me, either, with any guff about how I wouldn't know if you were here or not! The nurse told me you hadn't been in since the first night."

Wry amusement suffusing his face, his eyes twinkling, Mark scratched his cheek and said, "Well, let's see. After I was arrested for having attempted to kill you, I spent a couple fun-filled days enjoying the amenities of San Quentin, renewed some old acquaintances, got shot by one of the guards for starting a riot, and, well, I guess that's about it."

Hardcastle snorted. "Will you be serious for a minute?"

Looking away with a thin-lipped smile, Mark shook his head and shrugged. "Seriously? It's all a little complicated. I'll fill you in on the details when you get home." Turning back to face his friend, he added, "But the bottom line is, we saved three truckloads of terrified Asian girls and the Collagios are not only already locked up but they won't be getting out anytime soon. So you can relax, Judge. We nailed them."

A bright, satisfied smile lit Hardcastle's face and he gave a decisive nod. "Good!" He nodded again, and went on, "See, I knew Frank was worryin' too much. Sure, I got a little banged up, but what the hell. I'm okay; just need these bones to heal."

"Frank!" Mark exclaimed. "Oh, man," he muttered anxiously, completely unconscious of the fact that he supported his side as he hastily rounded the bed, heading for the phone on the side table. "So much has been going on that I forgot all about …." His voice died away as he punched in the numbers.

Milt's evident elation faded. His tongue absently probed a tooth as he watched the way Mark moved stiffly and unconsciously held his side; his gaze narrowing, his brow furrowed as sudden suspicion flashed in his eyes. Before he could say anything, Mark was talking to Frank's secretary. "Ah, hi, Georgette, it's Mark. I was wondering, have you heard anything from Frank? Is everything okay?" He listened for a moment and then the worry on his face eased into relief. "Oh, that's good news." He listened again and then laughed as he quirked a brow at Hardcastle. "Hardcase, oh, he's as irascible and irritating as ever. Already wondering when he can go home. You know him; nothing keeps him down for long. So much for my plans of lazing around by the pool. Huh? … Yeah, yeah, right. Okay, see ya! Bye."

Frowning heavily, Milt barked, "What was that all about? What happened to Frank?"

"Oh, he's fine. Claudia's sister and her husband were in a bad accident in Italy, and he took off to go help them after we saw him the other day. But looks like they're gonna be okay, so that's a relief."

"If Frank's been in Italy, who've you been working with?" he demanded.

Again trying for a nonchalant shrug, Mark reported evenly, "Well, since I guess you'd called him that we suspected the Collagios were transporting human cargo, it was already shaping up to be a federal case, so he called in a buddy of his with the FBI, guy name of Lou McKendrick. He's good. Was right there to impound the trucks, free the girls and lock up the bad guys. Like you said to Frank, 'piece of cake'."

"Piece of cake, huh?" Hardcase challenged, his suspicions obviously well and truly aroused. Mark looked away, knowing full well that the Judge was figuring that no Frank and him missing for three days meant that something wasn't adding up, but he really didn't want to get into it all right then. A yawn snuck up on Hardcastle, and his voice lacked the usual force when he attempted to bellow, "Tell me what really happened!"

Making like a sad puppy, Mark gave him a look of wide-eyed hurt. "I did tell you. You just don't believe me, Judge." But he swiftly shifted to a cajoling tone coupled with a no-nonsense expression to redirect the conversation. "You're wiped out and you really need to get a whole lot more sleep. Relax. Everything's fine and I told you I'll fill you in on all the picky little details when we get you home."

Hardcastle gave him an evil look, but then rolled his eyes in apparent defeat. "Okay, you win," he allowed. "But I'm not the only one who looks like he could use a bit of shut-eye. I know you spent the night in that chair, so go on home."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah," he replied grouchily. "Way I feel, I'm gonna sleep for the next twenty-four hours and I don't want you hanging around here bugging me. So go. I'll see ya tomorrow."

With an easy smile, feeling about ready to collapse and not having the energy to argue, Mark nodded. "Okay, Hardcase," he agreed. "Gotta admit, the bed in the gatehouse is gonna look mighty fine." As he left, he called over his shoulder, "And don't be giving the nurses a hard time. They've got needles and they know how to get even."

When Milt just growled, he laughed and disappeared into the hall.

00000

Hardcastle stared at the space that Mark had so recently occupied, scowling heavily. Something was definitely wrong. For one thing, McCormick's banter was off, not up to his usual crisp and playful repartee. And the kid was hurting, physically, though he'd done his best to hide that fact. Then there were the missing days that he was exceptionally reluctant to talk about, which was odd, given that the outcomes, the arrest of the Collagios, spelled success. He'd looked pale, even a bit haggard, certainly rough around the edges. And he'd been damned close to tears this morning, more than once.

That was the most disturbing sign that something was definitely wrong. This kid didn't cry. When his father broke his heart, he didn't cry. When he lost people he cared about, sure, he got emotional and it was clear that he was hurting, but he didn't cry. Even when he'd killed Weed Randall and had been all broken up inside, haunted and feeling less, like he'd lost part of his soul, he still hadn't cried. Came close, but didn't. Apparently, in the last few days, Mark had been hurt worse than he'd ever been since they'd really gotten to know one another – and given how often and hard he'd been hurt in the last two years, that was saying something. This was bad, so bad that the kid didn't want to talk about it, maybe couldn't.

_Well, the hell with that._ No way was Hardcastle prepared to let it all just slide for what could be as much as a week. And there was no way he could help if he didn't know what he was dealing with here. Grimacing, he fought his need to know with his aversion for invading McCormick's privacy, for going where Mark didn't want him to be. But he … he couldn't just sit back and pretend he couldn't see the pain. What kind of friend would that make him? A fair-weather friend, that's what. And Mark had had too damned many of those kinds of friends in his life already. _Besides,_ he argued with himself, _I'm his parole officer. He's in my custody. I have a right to know, dammit._

He had questions and he wanted answers … and he knew just where he could probably get them – or at least most of them – a place to start unraveling the story. "Well," he sighed, "might as well get it done." Having made his decision to butt in, he fumbled around to find the call button for the nurse.

When the nurse appeared, he said in his most charming manner, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to an FBI Agent named Lou McKendrick about, well, about everything's that's happened. I know he's been in to see me a few times but I was pretty out of it. Could you find his number and place a call to him for me?"

"Why, certainly, Mr. Hardcastle," she replied with a warm smile. "Special Agent McKendrick left his card in case we needed to contact him. It's right here, in the table drawer." She drew it out, dialed the number and handed the phone to him.

He smiled winningly and she murmured that she'd return in a few minutes to hang it up for him. His smile faded and when McKendrick answered, he said with his most business-like and brusque manner, "This is Judge Milton C. Hardcastle. I want to know what's been happening since I was shoved off that road and I figure you're just the guy who can tell me …. Yeah, I was pretty foggy yesterday, but I'm doin' fine, thanks. So, what did I miss?"

Hardcastle's eyes narrowed, his lips thinned, and anger flashed in his eyes as he listened but, aside from the occasional grunt to indicate he was still on the line, he refrained from comment. Still, he couldn't believe anyone had seriously been considering charging McCormick for the assault against him. Good for the kid, that he'd stood up for himself. As McKendrick went on, though, a hollow feeling grew in his gut as he realized Mark had told him nothing but the truth about what he'd endured in the past days, however he'd masked it as an outrageous litany of completely unlikely events.

The FBI agent continued giving him details that Mark had blithely skipped over and deferred for another time. Details like how he'd insisted on returning to San Quentin. A kind of anguish and deep, deep regret filled Milt to learn that McCormick had put himself through that – but he felt fierce pride, as well, that he was right, had always been right about the depth of Mark's integrity and his limitless courage. He grinned as he listened to how the kid had set up his marks, and nodded, very pleased, when he heard the role Joe Cadillac had played in it all. Sometimes … sometimes good deeds really were rewarded. Maybe McCormick had a point about karma, after all.

But when he heard Mark had not only really been shot, but shot by a _guard_, he was hard-pressed to contain his anger and the gut-wrenching realization that McCormick could have easily died in those moments. God damn it; to quell a riot, teargas was used, or you hosed the men down, literally, with water under high pressure. You used rubber bullets or tranquillizer darts. You didn't _ever_ use live rounds except as a last resort, when lives were clearly at risk. That guard was just lucky he hadn't killed anyone, let alone a man trying to save the lives of others. Breathing heavily, his jaw clenched, he shook his head – and then snorted contemptuously when he heard about the Warden's attempt to get a waiver of accountability out of a wounded man who was probably on pain medication and not thinking clearly. How the hell had that moron gotten his job?

When the last of the story was told, feeling wrung-out by the emotions that had surged as he'd listened, he sighed wearily. "Thank you, Mr. McKendrick, both for visiting me the last couple days, as I know you did, and for this information," he said formally. "Mark gave me the highlights but he skipped over a good many of the details. I'm obliged to you for filling in the blanks. Now, about that waiver, I'd appreciate it if you'd send it over to me and have Warden Howard call me if he wants to discuss it further. And, uh," he paused, knowing he might be placing the other man in a difficult position, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell McCormick we had this little conversation. Now that I know what I'm looking for, I'll get the details out of him my own way …. Thank you. Oh, and I should let you know that, right now, I don't have any recollection of the attack by Grimsby. The doctor says this kind of short-term memory loss is normal after a head injury. If I do remember anything, I'll call you to make a formal statement for your files … Very good, sir. Good day."

The nurse had been hovering for the last part of his conversation, and took the phone when he handed it to her. For the next fifteen minutes, he suffered through a bed bath and a change of the bed linen, hating the indignity of being so helpless but manfully refraining from taking it out on her. To distract himself, he thought about Mark and he castigated himself for falling for the tap-dancing. He should know by now that McCormick didn't lie, not to him, anyway; Mark concealed the truth in plain sight by making it sound too wildly implausible to be believed. Hell, he'd been standing right there at the foot of the bed, after spending the night in the chair, blithely reporting he'd been shot. It had sounded ridiculous and clearly impossible.

Frowning, Milt remembered how he'd watched the kid sleeping during the night and how very glad he'd been to see McCormick had finally returned, safe and sound, from wherever he'd been. Now, he felt humbled, and deeply moved that, even after having been wounded, when the case was done Mark had come straight back to him and had spent what must have been a wretchedly uncomfortable night to stay by his side.

Was that why the kid had been so close to breaking up this morning? Had McCormick been that scared that he'd never wake up or never be right in the head again? Had Mark been that overwrought? Did he really mean _that_ much to McCormick? Or was it going back to San Quentin – the opening of all the scars – revisiting the site of too much pain? Hardcastle's chest ached when he thought about that. Maybe it was both, _everything_, including the fact that the kid had to be hurting physically and damned close to exhaustion.

Mark had sure gone through the wringer for him, being worried about him, going after the garbage that had hurt him, trying to protect him from worrying in his turn about all that Mark had endured on his behalf. Hardcastle's throat thickened and he figured it was a good thing he'd sent the kid home, or it wouldn't have been Mark who embarrassed them both with an untoward expression of emotion that neither of them was comfortable with. Sniffing, the back of his eyes dry and burning, all things considered, Milt decided the kid had handled the crashing relief of it all being over real well.

Not to say that there still weren't some things they needed to talk about. Even for the best of reasons, going into that prison alone and vulnerable wasn't the smartest thing McCormick had ever done. Maybe the bravest, but sure in hell not the smartest.

By the time the nurse was finished with him, both his physical and emotional energy were flagging badly and he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open, however much he wanted to keep thinking about what he'd been told and about all Mark had done. When sleep came, he succumbed, but grudgingly.

00000

Traffic was heavy that time of the day and it took over an hour for the taxi to traverse the distance from Mercy Hospital to Gulls Way. But, they'd finally made it and, as they neared the turn into the drive, Mark idly wondered if the Judge had called McKendrick immediately, or if he'd wait until later in the day. He'd snowed Hardcastle, at least for awhile, but Milt had been looking at him askance before he'd managed to extricate himself. And he knew Hardcase; he was worse than a dog with a bone. The man hated not to know what was going on around him. And he didn't give up, and certainly not that easily, on getting the answers he wanted … he just found another way to get them.

Which was just fine, so far as Mark was concerned.

In fact, it was better this way.

He really didn't want to talk about San Quentin or all the reasons he'd chosen to go back. No, that was only part of it, he admitted to himself. He didn't want to talk about prison, period, with the Judge; it was still a sore subject between them, but they'd shelved it and moved on. Mark didn't want to dredge up his anger at having been sent up for two years for having simply repossessed his own car. And, while he knew Hardcase would defend the legality of his decision with his dying breath, he also knew the Judge felt bad whenever he thought too much about what Mark had endured during those two years. It was over, done, and nothing either of them could say would ever change the past. So they focused on the now.

McKendrick would give him the facts about what went down and, yeah, Hardcase would hear that he really had gotten shot, but the Judge would also know that he was fine. As Milt had said about his own injuries, the damage would heal and was no big deal. Smiling to himself as the cab drew to a stop, he pulled the fare out of his wallet. He was going to have fun ragging on the old donkey for not believing him when he'd summarized the highlights – or would that be low points – of the past few days.

Feeling as if he was on his last legs, Mark got out of the cab and, supporting his very sore side with one hand, he slowly made his way along the path to the Gatehouse. But, before he went inside, he took a good look around at the main house and the gardens, the lush lawns and the hedges. God, he remembered when he'd first come and Sarah had told him he'd be responsible for the upkeep of the place. He'd been staggered and couldn't even imagine where he'd start. It wasn't like he'd ever mowed a lawn before in his life or had the first clue about taking care of flowers, shrubs and hedges. And he sure didn't want to look like a fool, or get himself booted back to jail because he was hopelessly incompetent, at least not until he'd gotten Martin Cody, anyway. So, he'd done what he'd always done to get by. He'd scammed, bitched, whined, moaned, misdirected, redirected … and bought himself time to learn, from books, from staff at the local garden center, and by trial and error.

Now, he knew what he was doing and the grounds looked pretty damned good. Much as he still whined and moaned and bitched, he enjoyed working around the place. It was so open, so … free; there was so much space that he never felt crowded. And it was very, very beautiful. Turning his face toward the sea, he stood for a moment, enjoying the touch of the light breeze on his face, the scent of the clean, salt air, and the soothing sound of the surf. Suffused with a sense of peace, he finally went inside. Reveling in the silent solitude, the privacy, the comfortable ambiance of the elegant cottage, he mounted the stairs and stiffly undressed. The pain killer had kicked in and, though he felt a low ache in his side, it wasn't too bad. Not bad at all; in fact, he felt downright euphoric. He was alive, he was home, and Hardcastle was going to be just fine. Too tired and a little too shaky to shower, he climbed into his bed, closed his eyes and sighed. Feeling as if he was the luckiest guy in the world, utterly content and deeply grateful, he dropped into sleep.

00000

When Mark woke the next day, he felt like a new man, invigorated. Yeah, sure, his wound plagued him, an annoying pulling ache in his side, but taping plastic over it, so he could take a shower without the incision getting wet, was the main challenge it presented. He lingered under the hot water just because he could, and then shaved. Only then, when he looked into his eyes in the mirror, did it hit him. He'd had two full nights of uninterrupted sleep – albeit one in the chair at the hospital. There'd been no nightmare, either night, waking him with racing heart and gasping breath.

Puzzled about that, he frowned thoughtfully. After he'd been in there again, lived it for real again, he would've bet good money that not only would the prisonscape of his dreams be back, but in full force, driving off all other dreams. Shivering slightly, he resolutely shrugged off all thoughts of the big house with many doors and returned to his room to dress.

Since he almost always ate meals with Hardcastle, he had no food at his place. Rambling up to the main house, he gazed across the grounds, noting that the grass needed to be cut again and some of the flower beds were sorely in need of weeding. Sighing, he said dramatically, "Ah, the life of a slave. My work is never done." And then he chuckled to himself.

Over a breakfast of eggs and sausages cooked just the way he liked them, and toast with raspberry jam, he found himself wondering what the Judge would be having for breakfast – and doubted it would be anything particularly delectable. Washing up after, he made a mental list of the stops he had to make on the way to visit Hardcase.

An hour later, he sauntered casually along the hall to the dinky cubicle with the glass wall and mused to himself about how similar, in some ways, the place was to prison. It was a locked ward, for one thing. There was no privacy. You were at the mercy of the institutional schedule, like eating what they served and when they served it, whether you were particularly hungry or not. The staff wore uniforms, and monitored all your activities, telling you what you could do and what you couldn't. And you weren't supposed to leave until the person in charge, in this case the doctor, said you could go. Even then, there was usually some kind of mandated follow-up to check and see that you were following instructions about treatments or medications or whatever. Hardcase's cubicle was about the size of a cell and equally as utilitarian, in its own way. And hey, there were even cops standing sentry outside his door – okay, to keep the wrong sort out, rather than in, but there were similarities. Finally, being in hospital was not usually a place where anyone wanted to spend a whole lot of time, involved pain of one kind or another, and was a place people did their best to avoid and longed to leave.

So he could understand the thunderous scowl that greeted him when he arrived sporting a wide grin.

"Bout time you showed up!" Hardcastle snapped. "A man could go stir-crazy in here."

"Ah, it's good to see you, too, Judge," he quipped as he neared the bed. "I see you're in tip-top form this morning!"

Hardcase rolled his eyes and exhaled forcefully. "Yeah, well, I am feeling better. Slept nearly the whole time since you left," he admitted. But he was petulant again as he grumbled, "I want this tube gone so I can go home. There's nothing to do in here. I'm not even allowed a television set until I go to a regular room."

"Then you'll be glad I've come bearing gifts," Mark laughed, holding up one of the bags he carried. Setting the smaller package on the side table, he put the bigger one on the bed and reached into it. Waggling his eyebrows, he asked elfishly, "You wanna guess what I brought you? You're gonna be so pleased!"

Intrigued, Milt eyed the over-size convenience store plastic bag, his mouth twisting as he thought about it. "Popcorn's no good without a movie to go with it," he rumbled, reluctant to let go of his irritable mood.

"When the man's right, he's right," Mark agreed heartily. He pulled out a stack of thin magazines and then fanned them for Hardcastle to see. "All the latest editions of your favorite classics," he announced smugly. "We got Superman, the Lone Ranger, Batman and all the other crime fighters extraordinaire!"

Milt's eyes lit up and he grinned like a little kid as he reached with his good arm to take the proffered treasures. "Hey, great!" he exclaimed happily.

"And, there's more!" Mark announced perkily, striking a pose before he again rummaged in the sack. "I knew they wouldn't allow the regular teeny-tiny tv that you can't really see without binoculars in here," he said. "But they've got some half-decent adventures on audio-cassette so," he went on, deepening his voice like a television show host announcing the big winning prize, "for your listening enjoyment, we have …" he paused, dragging it out as he slowly withdrew his hands from the bag, and then exclaimed, "Treasure Island, The Treasure of Sierra Madre, the Man in the Iron Mask, and, the piece de la resistance, The Scarlet Pimpernel!" He waved the tapes in one hand and the small player he'd picked up in the other, and hid his regret that he'd been unable to find anything that had starred the Duke.

"Geez, McCormick," Hardcastle observed, obviously delighted, "this is beginning to look like Christmas around here. Those are great, just great – will really help to pass the time."

"Yeah, and we can listen together!" Mark pealed with exaggerated excitement, "And critique the literary styles and character development and …."

"Yeah, yeah," Milt chuckled. "Literary styles, right." He drew in a deep breath and hardly winced at the pull in his chest, a close-lipped smile on his face as he surveyed his booty. But then a wistful expression appeared, and he sighed. "Now if there was only some decent food, it'd be just about perfect – or as perfect as being stuck in here can ever be."

"Ah, well, you see, Tonto thought about that, too," Mark said in a low, conspiratorial, confidential tone as he made a show of glancing over his shoulder to see if the coast was clear. Once more, he reached into the large bag and drew out two small bags of potato chips and two cans of Coke. "Aannddd," he drawled, reaching for the smaller bag he'd set aside earlier, "a certain retired Superior Court Judge's most absolute favorite … cream and jelly-filled donuts!"

Hardcastle's smile was wide and then he laughed, winced and put an arm around his chest, but kept laughing. But when Mark's facetious manner dropped away and he anxiously urged, "Hey, take it easy, Judge, don't hurt yourself!" Milt waved off his concern. "It's okay, it's okay. I'm fine. Just …" he seemed to search for words. "This is all really terrific, kid. Thanks.

Pleased, Mark gave a diffident shrug and a slow smile. "Yeah, well, I figured you'd be bored out of your tree about now, and you've still got a few days to go before they'll let you escape. A bored Milton is a very, uh, dangerous Milton. Who knew what kind of trouble you'd get yourself into? Interrogating all the staff, uncovering conspiracies to defraud the hospital of various treasures like aspirin or bandages." He shook his head. "Doesn't bear thinking about, you know?"

Hardcastle snorted and waved Mark to the chair. "How're you doin' today, Sport?"

Grinning, Mark sat down and stretched out his legs. "Slept nearly round the clock and feel terrific and …" he went on with a long-suffering tone, holding up one hand in a 'stop' gesture, "you don't have to tell me – the lawn needs mowing and the gardens need weeding, so I'll get to them when I get home. No nagging, okay? I'm skilled labor, now, you know. I don't need daily supervision and oversight."

Shifting uncomfortably, his gaze roaming the room, Hardcastle replied with low gruffness, "Ah, don't worry about it. The lawns and stuff can wait …."

Leaning forward, Mark peered at him and held a hand to his ear. "What? I couldn't have heard that right."

Flapping a hand at him, Hardcase whined, "Cut it out, McCormick. You heard what I said."

"Yeah, I heard you," he allowed, enjoying himself, 'cause he just _knew_ Hardcase had gone to Lou behind his back. "Guess I'm just a bit mystified as to why you're cutting me some slack, here. I mean, if it's about all the comics and stuff, you don't have to –"

"No, no," Milt shook his head. "I'm real grateful that you brought me all this great stuff but …."

"But?" Mark encouraged when the Judge's voice fell away.

"It's just …."

"Just?"

"Well, just that I figure you must've been busy these last few days, real busy. And … and you could probably do with a break to, to, uh, you know … rest," Hardcastle said, looking pleased with his quite evidently improvised rationale.

"Uh huh," Mark grunted, leaning back against the chair. "You think I could do with some rest. Because I've probably been busy."

"That's right," Hardcase affirmed, assiduously avoiding Mark's steady gaze. When Mark didn't say anything, he sniffed and gave him a quick, sideways, look. "What?" he demanded.

"I didn't say anything," Mark replied, all innocence. "Surprised, maybe. By your, uh, assumptions that I've been busy and could use some rest. For all you know, I could have been sitting on my ass for two days, looking at mug shots to pick out other drivers in Collagio's operation."

"Is that what you were doing?" Milt asked, striving to look just as innocent but not quite making it.

"No."

"You know, I really don't want to play twenty questions to haul answers out of you, McCormick," he grumbled, taking refuge in a good offence. "You could just spit it out, you know."

Mark grinned and then laughed. "Ah, Hardcase," he sighed. "What am I going to do with you? You have the hardest time being devious, don't you?"

"I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about," Milt retorted huffily.

Snorting, Mark goaded, "C'mon, I know you talked to Lou."

Hardcastle's head snapped up and he exclaimed indignantly, "He told you! He told me he wouldn't."

"Nah," Mark chuckled. "He didn't tell me. _You _just did."

"I … uh … well, that is …."

"You couldn't stand it, could you? You just had to sneak around behind my back to find out what I was up to, didn't you, Hardcase?" Mark charged and then gave a theatrical sigh. "I said I'd tell you all about it, but you just couldn't wait. And hey," he went on, dramatically waving an arm to indignantly underscore his point, "to add insult to injury, I _did_ tell you – you just didn't believe _me_."

"Ah, it wasn't like that," Milt grumbled, fairly caught and knowing it. Grimacing, he explained, "It's just that, well, I could see that you were …."

"Were?"

"Hurting, okay! You were all stiff and awkward, and you looked pretty rough around the edges and I, well, I …."

"Yes?"

"Well, I was … concerned, that's all. Just concerned," Hardcastle replied. As if wondering why he was the one on the defensive, he shot back, "And what the hell were you thinking, McCormick? Going back there? With no back-up? I know you're not the brightest bulb in the package, but that was pretty stupid, even for you. You're just damned lucky you're not dead."

"Yeah, I guess I am," Mark agreed easily. "Lucky, I mean. I plead the fifth on the charge of being stupid."

The Judge grimaced and heaved a sigh, lifted his hand and let it fall. "That was a dangerous stunt you pulled," he rumbled, his tone more reasonable if still resonating with disapproval.

"I know, Judge," Mark allowed, and then went on briskly, "Look, I don't mind that you talked to McKendrick. When I dropped his name yesterday, I figured you would. And, yeah, you're right; it was a risky long-shot, but it paid off big. You've got all the details now, and that's great. Case is wrapped up and we can move on. 'Cause, you know, I really don't want to talk about it. But if you want to yell at me, go ahead; get it off your chest."

"Ah, I'm not gonna yell at you," Milt retorted, sounding both aggrieved and surprised that McCormick would think he'd do such a thing. "What you did … well, it took guts, kid."

Mark blinked and then dipped his head, embarrassed and very pleased. "Ah, shucks, Judge," he said in his best 'Little Opie' imitation.

"I know you did it to nail the guys who set me up, and I appreciate that," Hardcastle went on soberly.

His head dipping lower, Mark rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.

"And you did it legal," Milt said, approvingly. "You didn't go off half-cocked looking for revenge. You used the resources available to you and you got the job done." He hesitated and then said gruffly, "I'm proud of you, Mark. You did good. You did real good."

"You know …" Mark murmured, sounding strangled, and he had to clear his throat. "I think it's easier when you just yell at me and get it over with. I'm not used to you going on mushy on me, Hardcase."

"Yeah, well," Milt sighed, equally uncomfortable with the unaccustomed solemnity between them. "You okay? McKendrick told me some trigger-happy idiot shot you."

Barking a laugh, Mark nodded. "Yeah," he snickered. "I'm lucky he wasn't a better shot – luckier still that the bullet spun me out of Blackmore's way." Standing, pulling at the edge of his shirt with the manner of one eager to show off a trophy, he offered, "You wanna see the wound?"

Wrinkling his nose, shaking his head and holding up a hand, Hardcastle exclaimed, "No, I don't want to see your wound!" Giving McCormick a narrow look, he went on, "Uh, what were those audio books you brought, again?"

Grinning impishly, Mark smoothed his shirt down and turned to the cassettes he'd stacked on the table. "Well, let's see. There's …."

Once they'd made their choice and the narrator's voice had begun, Milt settled back and closed his eyes. Mark studied him for a long moment and a small, shy smile curved his lips. 'Mushy' those words might have been, but they meant the world to him. He placed the bag of donuts on the bed, where the Judge could reach it, popped open one of the cans of Coke and grabbed a packet of chips. Settling in his chair, he listened to the adventure of the rightful king who'd been unjustly imprisoned in a dungeon, his true identity hidden behind a metal mask. Whimsically, he thought, _I can relate to that._

00000

Two weeks later, the Judge still sported a cast, sling and a walking brace on his left leg. Mark had been having a blast for days, teasing him about being Chester, the limping deputy in the old tv western, Gunsmoke, while striking poses of resolute expressions, squared back shoulders and the dry, heroic drawl of Sheriff Matt Dillon. The fact that Hardcase had tried to ignore his devilment after the first day only spurred him on.

When Milt hitched his way into the kitchen for breakfast that morning, Mark drawled, "Well, if it isn't good old Chester," as he finished dishing up their omelets and set the plates on the table by the window. When Hardcastle just snorted and sat down, reaching for the newspaper, Mark poured their coffee and reflected, "You know, with that rolling gait, maybe you're more like an old sea dog, huh? Retired from the life of chasing pirates on the Spanish Main?" And then he lowered his voice to jest, "Sure got the 'old' part right, anyway!" as he sat down.

Milt's mouth curved down but he resisted the lure to bite back, and just kept on reading. "Not much fun being the sidekick all the time, huh, Hardcase?" Mark bantered on, determined to get a rise out of his friend. Being incapacitated was driving the Judge nuts and McCormick figured he needed the relief of bellowing every once in awhile to stave off a stroke. "Ah, yes, it's great to be the hero, the one who gets all the applause and the admiration of the ladies. I can see why you like the Lone Ranger gig."

"Hero, huh?" Hardcastle finally bit. Setting aside the paper, he picked up his fork and goaded, "Like you were a couple weeks ago? Out there bein' the Lone Ranger all on your own, bringing the bad guys to justice? Enjoyed that, did ya?"

Caught off-balance by the unexpected reference to being back in prison, Mark barely kept himself from flinching. After a split-second of mute stillness, he managed off-handedly, "Well, you know, it had its moments."

"No, I don't know," Milt replied. "Because you won't talk about it. It's not good to bottle things up inside, kid."

"I'm not bottling anything up, Judge," he protested. "In fact," he went on, blurting out more than he'd ever intended to reveal, "I'll have you know that since I got back, I haven't had one single nightmare about – " But he stopped himself abruptly, appalled by what he'd nearly admitted. "Pass the ketchup," he said, closing the subject as he studiously turned his attention to his food.

"Nightmares, huh," Hardcase prompted as he planted the bottle in front of Mark's plate. When McCormick didn't elaborate, the Judge sniffed and said with a sigh, "Well, makes sense. I guess they're gone because you confronted your demons and you won."

"Demons?" Mark echoed, intrigued and then frowning, wondering if he was being sucked into something he really didn't want to get into. "I wouldn't go that far. A little too dramatic, you know? Everybody has bad dreams occasionally. No big deal."

Scratching his ear, his expression uncertain, and his tone hesitant, Milt said, "Look, I know this isn't a subject we talk about, okay? And, and that's probably for the best. But," he proceeded, and Mark rolled his eyes, "I can imagine why you might have nightmares about bein' there."

"No, Judge, you can't," Mark said quietly, his gaze averted. "You can't imagine it and I don't want you to even try." Rallying, he went on, "But the point here is, I'm not having them anymore, and that's a good thing. A really good thing."

"Yes, it is," Hardcastle agreed. "But their disappearance is no mystery, kiddo. Must've been damned hard to volunteer to go back into the house of many doors. I know that. But you faced up to it and, well … you won, didn't you? You didn't let it get to you. Personally," he rambled on, cutting into his omelet, "I think you won both times, but I know you don't always see it that way."

"Judge, I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied. "And I'm not sure you do, either. Psychoanalysis really isn't your strong suit."

"You don't think so, huh?" Milt challenged as he took a bite and chewed before swallowing. "You think I don't know that you don't want to talk about it, at least partly, because you don't want me feeling bad about how tough it is to do hard time because I'm the one who put you there?" Mark looked away and gave a little shrug. "Sure, I know that. And, and, well, you're right. I don't feel good about that, about knowing it wasn't a million laughs a minute. But it was either car theft or insurance fraud. Either way, you were cutting corners, dancing on the wrong side of the law, an' you got caught. That's just the way it was."

Mark grimaced. "Do we really need to talk about this?" he challenged tightly as he dug into his own food, pretending he was still hungry. "It's ancient history, Judge."

"No, we can go on letting it be the moose on the table and pretend it doesn't matter, but it does," Hardcastle returned. "We all make choices, McCormick. You made some bad ones for awhile and suffered the consequences. But you learned from them and, since then, you've been making the right ones."

His head bent over his meal, Mark flicked a wary look up at the Judge. "Thanks," he murmured. "I think."

"I'm just sayin' that you did good and I think that facing up to the demons, all the bad stuff that being in prison meant to you, is why the place doesn't haunt you anymore, that's all," Hardcase said.

Sighing, feeling as if his friend was giving him too much credit, Mark shook his head. "I don't know," he replied diffidently. "It's still a very scary place."

"For some, yes it is," Hardcastle agreed. "For others, who need the structure and the discipline, it's a refuge. You know as well as I do that there are men who thrive in the environment, and a good many who never want to leave, or who do stupid stuff to get back in almost as soon as they hit the streets. Might not be summer camp, but …." He shrugged and sipped at his coffee.

"I could never understand that," Mark said distantly. "All I ever wanted was to get out and to never go back." Sighing, he pushed his plate away. "I hated it in there, Judge. Hated every minute of it, every second. I … I felt like … a piece of garbage. Like I'd hit rock bottom and then some. I mean, my luck had never been terrific, you know? But, but it was like no matter how hard I tried, how hard I worked to … to make a life for myself, to amount to something, to matter, to have some idea why I'd ever been born – it just all went bad on me." He shook his head and, then, unable to stop once he'd started, he went on, "And, hey, I was used to things not being easy. I haven't had a real home from the time I was ten and I've been completely on my own since I was thirteen but … being sent there, being _in_ there …. I think hell must be like that. Being trapped, and knowing nobody gives a shit that you're stuck there, and that you don't really exist, that nothing, not one damned thing you do, matters. God, I might not have a home, but there is _no way_ I could ever start thinking of prison as home, you know? Like some of 'em do? Just no way, Jose."

Hardcastle's mouth tightened and his gaze dropped away. But a moment later, he rolled his shoulders and looked back at Mark, his gaze direct as he replied soberly, "But this time, you weren't 'trapped', you were on a mission. Everything you did mattered. You might have gone in alone, on your own, but Joe backed you up, because you deserved his protection. You'd earned it. And, even if your stunt hadn't worked, you wouldn't have been left to rot in there. Hell, it would've taken me about two seconds to get you out – you knew that. Even if somebody had wanted to, they couldn't have made those charges stick, you could be sure of that."

"I wasn't sure about anything at that point," Mark murmured. Bleakly, he looked at the Judge. "You were in pretty bad shape. I can't lie to you, Judge. I was scared. And I don't feel like I conquered any demons. I just … I just kept going, you know? 'Cause there wasn't any real choice."

"Sure there was a choice, McCormick!" Hardcase exploded in frustration. "There was always a choice! You didn't have to go in there and you could have had McKendrick pull you out at any time." Leaning forward, poking his finger at Mark, he bellowed, "You stuck it out because you had a job to do and you had enough grit to get it done! Despite the fact that it meant reliving your worst nightmare, you did it – because it was the right thing to do. That's it. That's all. And that's why those nightmares are gone. You haven't just kept those memories buried where they can eat at you – you've dug them up and put them behind you because that's _not _your life anymore."

Blinking at the vehemence, Mark gaped at the Judge. When the tirade was over he looked around uncertainly, trying to reconcile all the really pretty terrific things Hardcase had said with the furious, ill-tempered delivery. Giving his head a shake, he focused on the points his friend had made and, finally, he nodded. "Okay," he allowed, "I guess that makes sense. So, yeah, you're probably right." A grin flashed and then faded. The Judge had misinterpreted what he'd meant about why he'd been scared. But he'd also been scared about being inside, so maybe it was alright if he just let it go and didn't clarify his meaning.

"What now?" Milt groaned, peering at Mark's face as if reading every nuance of the expressions that flitted across his visage.

Rolling his shoulders, Mark stood to carry the plates to the sink. Standing with his back to Milt, he said quietly. "Well, yes, I was scared about being back inside, about what could go wrong. But, uh, that's not what I meant a few minutes ago. I … I meant I was scared about how badly you were hurt. At that point, the, um, the doctor said that you, uh, you might not wake up."

Hardcastle frowned. "And that reminds me," he said, quietly, "that's something else we need to talk about. One of the nurses told me what instructions you'd left before you took off for San Quentin. And while I appreciate the sentiment, if things were looking that bad, then those instructions don't make a lot of sense, now do they? I thought Charlie would have told you that I don't want –"

Whirling around, Mark snapped angrily, "Then maybe you should have designated _Charlie_ as the guy to make the decisions, Hardcase. You should have talked to me about that, you know? You should have let me know that …. I shouldn't have been caught cold with maybe having to …." The words caught in his throat and, breathing hard, he struggled with the emotions that had erupted when the Judge had _dared_ to suggest that he … that he ….

"Whoa, slow down, Sport," Milt said into the suddenly taut silence, his tone mild. "I suppose I could have left things in Charlie's hands but I just figured, well, I trust you and –"

"Well, you 'figured' wrong, Judge," Mark growled. "Because if you think for one minute that I could ever, _ever_, tell them to …." His voice cracked and he half-turned away. His voice low, tight, as he struggled for control, he rasped, "The order I gave is the _only_ one I'll _ever _give. So maybe you'd better pick somebody else."

"Ah, c'mon, McCormick," Milt persisted. "I want to know I'm in good hands, you know? I mean, if something ever did –"

"Don't, Judge!" Mark husked. "Just don't …. I don't want … I can't imagine …." He closed his eyes and shook his head. The old donkey just didn't get it. Didn't have a clue how important he was, how necessary. How devastating it would be if anything ever happened to him. He was all Mark had, the only family – to be the one who officially ended Hardcastle's life would be worse than dying himself. Just the _thought_ of having to do that made him break out in a sweat, his chest so tight he could hardly breathe, and his gut twisting so violently that he thought he might vomit. "Don't make me do that, Judge," he rasped hoarsely. "Please, don't make me do that."

His eyes burned and he blinked hard, swiped at his face with trembling hands. Too much. Everything they'd talked about since they'd sat down to eat was just too damned much. Desperate for distraction, he turned to the sink and jerked on the tap to fill it with water. Swallowing hard, he gripped the counter and said, with grim finality in his tone, "I'll do _anything_ you ever ask me to, Judge – anything, but that. I can't and I won't do … that."

He heard the Judge push his chair back and get to his feet. Taking a breath, deciding the conversation was most definitely over, Mark squirted some dish soap into the sink. Deliberately lightening his tone as much as he could, he suggested, "Look, it's a beautiful day out there. Why don't you take your newspaper outside? I'll, uh, I'll just finish up in here and then I'm going to clean the pool."

"Yeah, okay, good idea," Milt agreed, his tone subdued. But he paused on the way to the back door to grip Mark's shoulder. "I'll think about you what you said. But … well, maybe I want someone who won't give up on me, you know? Maybe I know that you're the one person who never will."

Mark's throat thickened and he pressed his eyes closed. Taking a shuddery breath, he said huskily, "Well, Hardcase, if that's what you really want, then I'm your man. Heck, hard as those outlaws tried, they never could kill the Lone Ranger. Tonto just had to hide him out for awhile, sometimes, give 'im time to heal, right?"

"Now yer cookin'," Milt said as patted Mark's shoulder and moved past. Opening the door, he said heartily, "Well, that was a great breakfast, McCormick and we got a lot of things sorted out, which is a good thing." He limped across the sill but then, turning back to grasp the door handle and close it behind him, he said, "But, uh, there's just one other thing …."

Mark rolled his eyes and physically braced himself for whatever other thorny topic the Judge had decided it was high time to confront. God, he hated it when Hardcase was laid up and had nothing better to do than ruminate on stuff, and he couldn't _wait_ until they could get busy on another case. "Yeah?" he finally said as he twisted off the tap, resigned to the impossibility of turning the stubborn donkey off whatever path he was determined to follow.

"What you said earlier, 'bout bein' on your own since you were a kid and not having a home?"

"Uh huh," Mark grunted, pushing the dishes into the soapy water and refusing to look at him.

"Just so you're clear – that _stopped_ bein' true some time ago," Milt said with gruff forcefulness. "_Nobody's_ gonna bushwack Tonto so long as the Lone Ranger's around, and Robin lives at the Wayne estate 'cause it's his _home_ and, uh, it _always_ will be. Perks of bein' a sidekick."

With that, he decisively closed the back door with the ringing finality of how he'd once pounded his gavel.

"Perks of being a sidekick?" Mark echoed, his voice high with incredulity. He huffed a laugh and shook his head helplessly at the surge of emotion that engulfed him. "Just so we're clear?" he choked. "Are you kidding me?"

He looked up at the ceiling and struggled to master his breathing. His eyes filled and he blinked hard. It might feel ridiculously like a fairytale, but this really _wasn't_ a dream. He wasn't going to wake up one morning and discover it was all over, that he'd just been a temporary convenience and no longer needed. His life wasn't about being lost and abandoned, alone and on his own, anymore. This, _this_ was his life now. This _was_ real. This was really gonna last. This time, he'd found a place where he _belonged_. _He was home._

Sniffing, he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, obliterating the tear that he hadn't managed to blink away. Sighing, he again shook his head and laughed weakly as he started to wash the dishes. "Always have to have the last word, don't you, Judge?" he muttered unsteadily with fond bemusement. "But, I gotta tell ya, that orphan, Robin, _loves _havin' a home to come home to … and he thinks being chosen by Batman made him one helluva a lucky guy. And Tonto? Well, it's an honor to be the only guy around who knows the man behind the mask." He rinsed off a plate and set it on the rack to dry. "So, he has to duck a few bullets once in awhile?" he mused whimsically. "Keeps life interesting."

He finished the dishes and wiped down the stove and counter. Pulling the pitcher of ice tea from the fridge, he poured two glasses to take out to the pool. The sun was hot and after all the salt the Judge insisted on putting on his eggs, he'd be thirsty about now.

"McCORMICK!"

"Yeah?" he called back as he walked to the door.

"Did you see this story in the paper?" Hardcastle bellowed. "That crook, Hennessey, is trying to get away with …."

"Took you long enough to find that article," Mark muttered, having figured it would catch the Judge's attention, and grinned as the Judge continued expostulating with affronted indignation and judicial ire. In about two minutes, he'd be sent to the basement to pull out the file on the millionaire builder who Hardcastle just _knew_ used faulty materials and illegal, untrained laborers, paying them peanuts and pocketing the profits with no evident regret if roofs caved in or people unfortunately died as a result.

Setting one glass down, he smugly retrieved the file in question from where he'd stashed it in one of the cupboards and stuck it under his arm. Opening the door, he picked up the glass and sauntered outside. "Ah, the work of a sidekick is never done," he sighed and then snickered.

Raising his voice, he yelled, his tone cheerfully argumentative, "Don't say it, Hardcase. Do _not_ say you want me to get a job on the construction crew and slave in the hot sun to find evidence of faulty construction and criminal negligence! In this weather, I'll die of heat prostration! That's if they don't kill me first and pour concrete over my body so I'll never be found!"

"Ah, don't give me that, McCormick," Hardcastle carped when he came into view. "This is serious stuff here. People are getting killed!"

"People die everyday, Judge," Mark replied with mild reasonableness, as he set down the glasses. "You can't save all of them."

"These people _shouldn't_ have died, dammit! What this guy is doing is illegal, and we're gonna prove it!"

"Oh, we are, are we?" Mark teased as he pulled out a chair.

"You bet your boots we are!"

Casually handing Hardcastle the file, he sat down and assumed his 'okay, I'm listening, lay it on me,' expression of exaggerated and eager attention.

Hardcase gave him a suspicious look as he took the file and opened it. And then he grinned and looked up. With a wink, he said approvingly, "Now yer cookin'!"

Quirking his brows, Mark sat back and – picking up his glass and saluting the Judge – with a broad, impish smile, he winked right back.

_Finis_


End file.
